



Produced by Mike Lough





THE CAPTAIN OF THE POLESTAR

AND OTHER TALES.

By Sir Arthur Conan Doyle


     TO
     MY FRIEND
     MAJOR-GENERAL A. W. DRAYSON
     AS A SLIGHT TOKEN
     OF
     MY ADMIRATION FOR HIS GREAT
     AND AS YET UNRECOGNISED SERVICES TO ASTRONOMY
     This little Volume
     IS
     DEDICATED





PREFACE For the use of some of the following Tales I am indebted to the
courtesy of the Proprietors of "Cornhill," "Temple Bar," "Belgravia,"
"London Society," "Cassell's," and "The Boys' Own Paper."

A. CONAN DOYLE, M.D.



CONTENTS.

     THE CAPTAIN OF THE POLE-STAR
     J. HABAKUK JEPHSON'S STATEMENT
     THE GREAT KEINPLATZ EXPERIMENT
     THE MAN FROM ARCHANGEL
     THAT LITTLE SQUARE BOX
     JOHN HUXFORD'S HIATUS
     A LITERARY MOSAIC
     JOHN BARRINGTON COWLES
     THE PARSON OF JACKMAN'S GULCH
     THE RING OF THOTH





THE CAPTAIN OF THE "POLE-STAR."

     [Being an extract from the singular journal of JOHN
     M'ALISTER RAY, student of medicine.]


September 11th.--Lat. 81 degrees 40' N.; long. 2 degrees E. Still
lying-to amid enormous ice fields. The one which stretches away to the
north of us, and to which our ice-anchor is attached, cannot be smaller
than an English county. To the right and left unbroken sheets extend
to the horizon. This morning the mate reported that there were signs of
pack ice to the southward. Should this form of sufficient thickness
to bar our return, we shall be in a position of danger, as the food, I
hear, is already running somewhat short. It is late in the season, and
the nights are beginning to reappear.

This morning I saw a star twinkling just over the fore-yard, the first
since the beginning of May. There is considerable discontent among the
crew, many of whom are anxious to get back home to be in time for the
herring season, when labour always commands a high price upon the Scotch
coast. As yet their displeasure is only signified by sullen countenances
and black looks, but I heard from the second mate this afternoon that
they contemplated sending a deputation to the Captain to explain their
grievance. I much doubt how he will receive it, as he is a man of fierce
temper, and very sensitive about anything approaching to an infringement
of his rights. I shall venture after dinner to say a few words to him
upon the subject. I have always found that he will tolerate from me what
he would resent from any other member of the crew. Amsterdam Island,
at the north-west corner of Spitzbergen, is visible upon our starboard
quarter--a rugged line of volcanic rocks, intersected by white seams,
which represent glaciers. It is curious to think that at the present
moment there is probably no human being nearer to us than the Danish
settlements in the south of Greenland--a good nine hundred miles as the
crow flies. A captain takes a great responsibility upon himself when he
risks his vessel under such circumstances. No whaler has ever remained
in these latitudes till so advanced a period of the year.

9 P.M,--I have spoken to Captain Craigie, and though the result has been
hardly satisfactory, I am bound to say that he listened to what I had to
say very quietly and even deferentially. When I had finished he put on
that air of iron determination which I have frequently observed upon his
face, and paced rapidly backwards and forwards across the narrow cabin
for some minutes. At first I feared that I had seriously offended him,
but he dispelled the idea by sitting down again, and putting his hand
upon my arm with a gesture which almost amounted to a caress. There
was a depth of tenderness too in his wild dark eyes which surprised
me considerably. "Look here, Doctor," he said, "I'm sorry I ever took
you--I am indeed--and I would give fifty pounds this minute to see you
standing safe upon the Dundee quay. It's hit or miss with me this time.
There are fish to the north of us. How dare you shake your head, sir,
when I tell you I saw them blowing from the masthead?"--this in a sudden
burst of fury, though I was not conscious of having shown any signs of
doubt. "Two-and-twenty fish in as many minutes as I am a living man,
and not one under ten foot.[1] Now, Doctor, do you think I can leave the
country when there is only one infernal strip of ice between me and my
fortune? If it came on to blow from the north to-morrow we could fill
the ship and be away before the frost could catch us. If it came on to
blow from the south--well, I suppose the men are paid for risking their
lives, and as for myself it matters but little to me, for I have more to
bind me to the other world than to this one. I confess that I am sorry
for you, though. I wish I had old Angus Tait who was with me last
voyage, for he was a man that would never be missed, and you--you said
once that you were engaged, did you not?"


[Footnote 1: A whale is measured among whalers not by the length of its
body, but by the length of its whalebone.]


"Yes," I answered, snapping the spring of the locket which hung from my
watch-chain, and holding up the little vignette of Flora.

"Curse you!" he yelled, springing out of his seat, with his very beard
bristling with passion. "What is your happiness to me? What have I to do
with her that you must dangle her photograph before my eyes?" I almost
thought that he was about to strike me in the frenzy of his rage, but
with another imprecation he dashed open the door of the cabin and rushed
out upon deck, leaving me considerably astonished at his extraordinary
violence. It is the first time that he has ever shown me anything but
courtesy and kindness. I can hear him pacing excitedly up and down
overhead as I write these lines.

I should like to give a sketch of the character of this man, but it
seems presumptuous to attempt such a thing upon paper, when the idea in
my own mind is at best a vague and uncertain one. Several times I have
thought that I grasped the clue which might explain it, but only to be
disappointed by his presenting himself in some new light which would
upset all my conclusions. It may be that no human eye but my own shall
ever rest upon these lines, yet as a psychological study I shall attempt
to leave some record of Captain Nicholas Craigie.

A man's outer case generally gives some indication of the soul within.
The Captain is tall and well-formed, with dark, handsome face, and a
curious way of twitching his limbs, which may arise from nervousness, or
be simply an outcome of his excessive energy. His jaw and whole cast
of countenance is manly and resolute, but the eyes are the distinctive
feature of his face. They are of the very darkest hazel, bright and
eager, with a singular mixture of recklessness in their expression, and
of something else which I have sometimes thought was more allied with
horror than any other emotion. Generally the former predominated, but on
occasions, and more particularly when he was thoughtfully inclined, the
look of fear would spread and deepen until it imparted a new character
to his whole countenance. It is at these times that he is most subject
to tempestuous fits of anger, and he seems to be aware of it, for I have
known him lock himself up so that no one might approach him until his
dark hour was passed. He sleeps badly, and I have heard him shouting
during the night, but his cabin is some little distance from mine, and I
could never distinguish the words which he said.

This is one phase of his character, and the most disagreeable one. It
is only through my close association with him, thrown together as we
are day after day, that I have observed it. Otherwise he is an agreeable
companion, well-read and entertaining, and as gallant a seaman as ever
trod a deck. I shall not easily forget the way in which he handled the
ship when we were caught by a gale among the loose ice at the beginning
of April. I have never seen him so cheerful, and even hilarious, as he
was that night, as he paced backwards and forwards upon the bridge amid
the flashing of the lightning and the howling of the wind. He has told
me several times that the thought of death was a pleasant one to him,
which is a sad thing for a young man to say; he cannot be much more than
thirty, though his hair and moustache are already slightly grizzled.
Some great sorrow must have overtaken him and blighted his whole life.
Perhaps I should be the same if I lost my Flora--God knows! I think if
it were not for her that I should care very little whether the wind blew
from the north or the south to-morrow.

There, I hear him come down the companion, and he has locked himself up
in his room, which shows that he is still in an unamiable mood. And so
to bed, as old Pepys would say, for the candle is burning down (we have
to use them now since the nights are closing in), and the steward has
turned in, so there are no hopes of another one.

September 12th.--Calm, clear day, and still lying in the same position.
What wind there is comes from the south-east, but it is very slight.
Captain is in a better humour, and apologised to me at breakfast for his
rudeness. He still looks somewhat distrait, however, and retains that
wild look in his eyes which in a Highlander would mean that he was
"fey"--at least so our chief engineer remarked to me, and he has some
reputation among the Celtic portion of our crew as a seer and expounder
of omens.

It is strange that superstition should have obtained such mastery over
this hard-headed and practical race. I could not have believed to what
an extent it is carried had I not observed it for myself. We have had a
perfect epidemic of it this voyage, until I have felt inclined to serve
out rations of sedatives and nerve-tonics with the Saturday allowance
of grog. The first symptom of it was that shortly after leaving Shetland
the men at the wheel used to complain that they heard plaintive cries
and screams in the wake of the ship, as if something were following it
and were unable to overtake it. This fiction has been kept up during the
whole voyage, and on dark nights at the beginning of the seal-fishing
it was only with great difficulty that men could be induced to do
their spell. No doubt what they heard was either the creaking of the
rudder-chains, or the cry of some passing sea-bird. I have been fetched
out of bed several times to listen to it, but I need hardly say that I
was never able to distinguish anything unnatural.

The men, however, are so absurdly positive upon the subject that it is
hopeless to argue with them. I mentioned the matter to the Captain once,
but to my surprise he took it very gravely, and indeed appeared to be
considerably disturbed by what I told him. I should have thought that he
at least would have been above such vulgar delusions.

All this disquisition upon superstition leads me up to the fact that Mr.
Manson, our second mate, saw a ghost last night--or, at least, says that
he did, which of course is the same thing. It is quite refreshing to
have some new topic of conversation after the eternal routine of bears
and whales which has served us for so many months. Manson swears the
ship is haunted, and that he would not stay in her a day if he had any
other place to go to. Indeed the fellow is honestly frightened, and I
had to give him some chloral and bromide of potassium this morning to
steady him down. He seemed quite indignant when I suggested that he had
been having an extra glass the night before, and I was obliged to pacify
him by keeping as grave a countenance as possible during his
story, which he certainly narrated in a very straight-forward and
matter-of-fact way.

"I was on the bridge," he said, "about four bells in the middle watch,
just when the night was at its darkest. There was a bit of a moon, but
the clouds were blowing across it so that you couldn't see far from the
ship. John M'Leod, the harpooner, came aft from the foc'sle-head and
reported a strange noise on the starboard bow.

"I went forrard and we both heard it, sometimes like a bairn crying and
sometimes like a wench in pain. I've been seventeen years to the country
and I never heard seal, old or young, make a sound like that. As we
were standing there on the foc'sle-head the moon came out from behind
a cloud, and we both saw a sort of white figure moving across the ice
field in the same direction that we had heard the cries. We lost sight
of it for a while, but it came back on the port bow, and we could just
make it out like a shadow on the ice. I sent a hand aft for the rifles,
and M'Leod and I went down on to the pack, thinking that maybe it might
be a bear. When we got on the ice I lost sight of M'Leod, but I pushed
on in the direction where I could still hear the cries. I followed them
for a mile or maybe more, and then running round a hummock I came right
on to the top of it standing and waiting for me seemingly. I don't
know what it was. It wasn't a bear any way. It was tall and white and
straight, and if it wasn't a man nor a woman, I'll stake my davy it
was something worse. I made for the ship as hard as I could run, and
precious glad I was to find myself aboard. I signed articles to do my
duty by the ship, and on the ship I'll stay, but you don't catch me on
the ice again after sundown."

That is his story, given as far as I can in his own words. I fancy what
he saw must, in spite of his denial, have been a young bear erect upon
its hind legs, an attitude which they often assume when alarmed. In
the uncertain light this would bear a resemblance to a human figure,
especially to a man whose nerves were already somewhat shaken. Whatever
it may have been, the occurrence is unfortunate, for it has produced a
most unpleasant effect upon the crew. Their looks are more sullen than
before, and their discontent more open. The double grievance of being
debarred from the herring fishing and of being detained in what they
choose to call a haunted vessel, may lead them to do something rash.
Even the harpooners, who are the oldest and steadiest among them, are
joining in the general agitation.

Apart from this absurd outbreak of superstition, things are looking
rather more cheerful. The pack which was forming to the south of us has
partly cleared away, and the water is so warm as to lead me to believe
that we are lying in one of those branches of the gulf-stream which run
up between Greenland and Spitzbergen. There are numerous small Medusae
and sealemons about the ship, with abundance of shrimps, so that there
is every possibility of "fish" being sighted. Indeed one was seen
blowing about dinner-time, but in such a position that it was impossible
for the boats to follow it.

September 13th.--Had an interesting conversation with the chief mate,
Mr. Milne, upon the bridge. It seems that our Captain is as great an
enigma to the seamen, and even to the owners of the vessel, as he has
been to me. Mr. Milne tells me that when the ship is paid off, upon
returning from a voyage, Captain Craigie disappears, and is not seen
again until the approach of another season, when he walks quietly
into the office of the company, and asks whether his services will be
required. He has no friend in Dundee, nor does any one pretend to be
acquainted with his early history. His position depends entirely upon
his skill as a seaman, and the name for courage and coolness which
he had earned in the capacity of mate, before being entrusted with a
separate command. The unanimous opinion seems to be that he is not a
Scotchman, and that his name is an assumed one. Mr. Milne thinks that he
has devoted himself to whaling simply for the reason that it is the most
dangerous occupation which he could select, and that he courts death in
every possible manner. He mentioned several instances of this, one of
which is rather curious, if true. It seems that on one occasion he
did not put in an appearance at the office, and a substitute had to
be selected in his place. That was at the time of the last Russian and
Turkish war. When he turned up again next spring he had a puckered wound
in the side of his neck which he used to endeavour to conceal with his
cravat. Whether the mate's inference that he had been engaged in the war
is true or not I cannot say. It was certainly a strange coincidence.

The wind is veering round in an easterly direction, but is still very
slight. I think the ice is lying closer than it did yesterday. As far
as the eye can reach on every side there is one wide expanse of spotless
white, only broken by an occasional rift or the dark shadow of a
hummock. To the south there is the narrow lane of blue water which is
our sole means of escape, and which is closing up every day. The Captain
is taking a heavy responsibility upon himself. I hear that the tank of
potatoes has been finished, and even the biscuits are running short,
but he preserves the same impassible countenance, and spends the greater
part of the day at the crow's nest, sweeping the horizon with his glass.
His manner is very variable, and he seems to avoid my society, but there
has been no repetition of the violence which he showed the other night.

7.30 P.M.--My deliberate opinion is that we are commanded by a madman.
Nothing else can account for the extraordinary vagaries of Captain
Craigie. It is fortunate that I have kept this journal of our voyage, as
it will serve to justify us in case we have to put him under any sort
of restraint, a step which I should only consent to as a last resource.
Curiously enough it was he himself who suggested lunacy and not mere
eccentricity as the secret of his strange conduct. He was standing upon
the bridge about an hour ago, peering as usual through his glass, while
I was walking up and down the quarterdeck. The majority of the men were
below at their tea, for the watches have not been regularly kept of
late. Tired of walking, I leaned against the bulwarks, and admired the
mellow glow cast by the sinking sun upon the great ice fields which
surround us. I was suddenly aroused from the reverie into which I had
fallen by a hoarse voice at my elbow, and starting round I found that
the Captain had descended and was standing by my side. He was staring
out over the ice with an expression in which horror, surprise, and
something approaching to joy were contending for the mastery. In
spite of the cold, great drops of perspiration were coursing down his
forehead, and he was evidently fearfully excited.

His limbs twitched like those of a man upon the verge of an epileptic
fit, and the lines about his mouth were drawn and hard.

"Look!" he gasped, seizing me by the wrist, but still keeping his
eyes upon the distant ice, and moving his head slowly in a horizontal
direction, as if following some object which was moving across the field
of vision. "Look! There, man, there! Between the hummocks! Now coming
out from behind the far one! You see her--you MUST see her! There still!
Flying from me, by God, flying from me--and gone!"

He uttered the last two words in a whisper of concentrated agony which
shall never fade from my remembrance. Clinging to the ratlines he
endeavoured to climb up upon the top of the bulwarks as if in the hope
of obtaining a last glance at the departing object. His strength was not
equal to the attempt, however, and he staggered back against the saloon
skylights, where he leaned panting and exhausted. His face was so livid
that I expected him to become unconscious, so lost no time in leading
him down the companion, and stretching him upon one of the sofas in the
cabin. I then poured him out some brandy, which I held to his lips, and
which had a wonderful effect upon him, bringing the blood back into his
white face and steadying his poor shaking limbs. He raised himself up
upon his elbow, and looking round to see that we were alone, he beckoned
to me to come and sit beside him.

"You saw it, didn't you?" he asked, still in the same subdued awesome
tone so foreign to the nature of the man.

"No, I saw nothing."

His head sank back again upon the cushions. "No, he wouldn't without the
glass," he murmured. "He couldn't. It was the glass that showed her to
me, and then the eyes of love--the eyes of love.

"I say, Doc, don't let the steward in! He'll think I'm mad. Just bolt the
door, will you!"

I rose and did what he had commanded.

He lay quiet for a while, lost in thought apparently, and then raised
himself up upon his elbow again, and asked for some more brandy.

"You don't think I am, do you, Doc?" he asked, as I was putting the
bottle back into the after-locker. "Tell me now, as man to man, do you
think that I am mad?"

"I think you have something on your mind," I answered, "which is
exciting you and doing you a good deal of harm."

"Right there, lad!" he cried, his eyes sparkling from the effects of the
brandy. "Plenty on my mind--plenty! But I can work out the latitude and
the longitude, and I can handle my sextant and manage my logarithms. You
couldn't prove me mad in a court of law, could you, now?" It was curious
to hear the man lying back and coolly arguing out the question of his
own sanity.

"Perhaps not," I said; "but still I think you would be wise to get home
as soon as you can, and settle down to a quiet life for a while."

"Get home, eh?" he muttered, with a sneer upon his face. "One word for
me and two for yourself, lad. Settle down with Flora--pretty little
Flora. Are bad dreams signs of madness?"

"Sometimes," I answered.

"What else? What would be the first symptoms?"

"Pains in the head, noises in the ears flashes before the eyes,
delusions"----

"Ah! what about them?" he interrupted. "What would you call a delusion?"

"Seeing a thing which is not there is a delusion."

"But she WAS there!" he groaned to himself. "She WAS there!" and rising,
he unbolted the door and walked with slow and uncertain steps to his
own cabin, where I have no doubt that he will remain until to-morrow
morning. His system seems to have received a terrible shock, whatever it
may have been that he imagined himself to have seen. The man becomes a
greater mystery every day, though I fear that the solution which he has
himself suggested is the correct one, and that his reason is affected.
I do not think that a guilty conscience has anything to do with his
behaviour. The idea is a popular one among the officers, and, I believe,
the crew; but I have seen nothing to support it. He has not the air of
a guilty man, but of one who has had terrible usage at the hands of
fortune, and who should be regarded as a martyr rather than a criminal.

The wind is veering round to the south to-night. God help us if it
blocks that narrow pass which is our only road to safety! Situated as
we are on the edge of the main Arctic pack, or the "barrier" as it
is called by the whalers, any wind from the north has the effect of
shredding out the ice around us and allowing our escape, while a wind
from the south blows up all the loose ice behind us and hems us in
between two packs. God help us, I say again!

September 14th.--Sunday, and a day of rest. My fears have been
confirmed, and the thin strip of blue water has disappeared from the
southward. Nothing but the great motionless ice fields around us, with
their weird hummocks and fantastic pinnacles. There is a deathly silence
over their wide expanse which is horrible. No lapping of the waves
now, no cries of seagulls or straining of sails, but one deep universal
silence in which the murmurs of the seamen, and the creak of their boots
upon the white shining deck, seem discordant and out of place. Our only
visitor was an Arctic fox, a rare animal upon the pack, though common
enough upon the land. He did not come near the ship, however, but after
surveying us from a distance fled rapidly across the ice. This was
curious conduct, as they generally know nothing of man, and being of an
inquisitive nature, become so familiar that they are easily captured.
Incredible as it may seem, even this little incident produced a bad
effect upon the crew. "Yon puir beastie kens mair, ay, an' sees mair nor
you nor me!" was the comment of one of the leading harpooners, and the
others nodded their acquiescence. It is vain to attempt to argue against
such puerile superstition. They have made up their minds that there is
a curse upon the ship, and nothing will ever persuade them to the
contrary.

The Captain remained in seclusion all day except for about half an hour
in the afternoon, when he came out upon the quarterdeck. I observed that
he kept his eye fixed upon the spot where the vision of yesterday had
appeared, and was quite prepared for another outburst, but none such
came. He did not seem to see me although I was standing close beside
him. Divine service was read as usual by the chief engineer. It is a
curious thing that in whaling vessels the Church of England Prayer-book
is always employed, although there is never a member of that Church
among either officers or crew. Our men are all Roman Catholics or
Presbyterians, the former predominating. Since a ritual is used which
is foreign to both, neither can complain that the other is preferred
to them, and they listen with all attention and devotion, so that the
system has something to recommend it.

A glorious sunset, which made the great fields of ice look like a lake
of blood. I have never seen a finer and at the same time more weird
effect. Wind is veering round. If it will blow twenty-four hours from
the north all will yet be well.

September 15th.--To-day is Flora's birthday. Dear lass! it is well that
she cannot see her boy, as she used to call me, shut up among the ice
fields with a crazy captain and a few weeks' provisions. No doubt she
scans the shipping list in the Scotsman every morning to see if we are
reported from Shetland. I have to set an example to the men and look
cheery and unconcerned; but God knows, my heart is very heavy at times.

The thermometer is at nineteen Fahrenheit to-day. There is but little
wind, and what there is comes from an unfavourable quarter. Captain is
in an excellent humour; I think he imagines he has seen some other omen
or vision, poor fellow, during the night, for he came into my room early
in the morning, and stooping down over my bunk, whispered, "It wasn't a
delusion, Doc; it's all right!" After breakfast he asked me to find out
how much food was left, which the second mate and I proceeded to do. It
is even less than we had expected. Forward they have half a tank full
of biscuits, three barrels of salt meat, and a very limited supply of
coffee beans and sugar. In the after-hold and lockers there are a good
many luxuries, such as tinned salmon, soups, haricot mutton, &c., but
they will go a very short way among a crew of fifty men. There are two
barrels of flour in the store-room, and an unlimited supply of tobacco.
Altogether there is about enough to keep the men on half rations for
eighteen or twenty days--certainly not more. When we reported the
state of things to the Captain, he ordered all hands to be piped,
and addressed them from the quarterdeck. I never saw him to better
advantage. With his tall, well-knit figure, and dark animated face, he
seemed a man born to command, and he discussed the situation in a cool
sailor-like way which showed that while appreciating the danger he had
an eye for every loophole of escape.

"My lads," he said, "no doubt you think I brought you into this fix, if
it is a fix, and maybe some of you feel bitter against me on account of
it. But you must remember that for many a season no ship that comes to
the country has brought in as much oil-money as the old Pole-Star,
and every one of you has had his share of it. You can leave your wives
behind you in comfort while other poor fellows come back to find their
lasses on the parish. If you have to thank me for the one you have to
thank me for the other, and we may call it quits. We've tried a bold
venture before this and succeeded, so now that we've tried one and
failed we've no cause to cry out about it. If the worst comes to the
worst, we can make the land across the ice, and lay in a stock of
seals which will keep us alive until the spring. It won't come to that,
though, for you'll see the Scotch coast again before three weeks are
out. At present every man must go on half rations, share and share
alike, and no favour to any. Keep up your hearts and you'll pull through
this as you've pulled through many a danger before." These few
simple words of his had a wonderful effect upon the crew. His former
unpopularity was forgotten, and the old harpooner whom I have already
mentioned for his superstition, led off three cheers, which were
heartily joined in by all hands.

September 16th.--The wind has veered round to the north during the
night, and the ice shows some symptoms of opening out. The men are in
a good humour in spite of the short allowance upon which they have been
placed. Steam is kept up in the engine-room, that there may be no delay
should an opportunity for escape present itself. The Captain is in
exuberant spirits, though he still retains that wild "fey" expression
which I have already remarked upon. This burst of cheerfulness puzzles
me more than his former gloom. I cannot understand it. I think I
mentioned in an early part of this journal that one of his oddities is
that he never permits any person to enter his cabin, but insists upon
making his own bed, such as it is, and performing every other office for
himself. To my surprise he handed me the key to-day and requested me to
go down there and take the time by his chronometer while he measured
the altitude of the sun at noon. It is a bare little room, containing
a washing-stand and a few books, but little else in the way of luxury,
except some pictures upon the walls. The majority of these are small
cheap oleographs, but there was one water-colour sketch of the head of a
young lady which arrested my attention. It was evidently a portrait, and
not one of those fancy types of female beauty which sailors particularly
affect. No artist could have evolved from his own mind such a curious
mixture of character and weakness. The languid, dreamy eyes, with their
drooping lashes, and the broad, low brow, unruffled by thought or care,
were in strong contrast with the clean-cut, prominent jaw, and the
resolute set of the lower lip. Underneath it in one of the corners was
written, "M. B., aet. 19." That any one in the short space of nineteen
years of existence could develop such strength of will as was stamped
upon her face seemed to me at the time to be well-nigh incredible. She
must have been an extraordinary woman. Her features have thrown such
a glamour over me that, though I had but a fleeting glance at them, I
could, were I a draughtsman, reproduce them line for line upon this page
of the journal. I wonder what part she has played in our Captain's
life. He has hung her picture at the end of his berth, so that his eyes
continually rest upon it. Were he a less reserved man I should make
some remark upon the subject. Of the other things in his cabin there
was nothing worthy of mention--uniform coats, a camp-stool, small
looking-glass, tobacco-box, and numerous pipes, including an oriental
hookah--which, by-the-bye, gives some colour to Mr. Milne's story about
his participation in the war, though the connection may seem rather a
distant one.

11.20 P.M.--Captain just gone to bed after a long and interesting
conversation on general topics. When he chooses he can be a most
fascinating companion, being remarkably well-read, and having the power
of expressing his opinion forcibly without appearing to be dogmatic. I
hate to have my intellectual toes trod upon. He spoke about the nature
of the soul, and sketched out the views of Aristotle and Plato upon
the subject in a masterly manner. He seems to have a leaning for
metempsychosis and the doctrines of Pythagoras. In discussing them we
touched upon modern spiritualism, and I made some joking allusion to
the impostures of Slade, upon which, to my surprise, he warned me most
impressively against confusing the innocent with the guilty, and argued
that it would be as logical to brand Christianity as an error because
Judas, who professed that religion, was a villain. He shortly afterwards
bade me good-night and retired to his room.

The wind is freshening up, and blows steadily from the north. The nights
are as dark now as they are in England. I hope to-morrow may set us free
from our frozen fetters.

September 17th.--The Bogie again. Thank Heaven that I have strong
nerves! The superstition of these poor fellows, and the circumstantial
accounts which they give, with the utmost earnestness and
self-conviction, would horrify any man not accustomed to their ways.
There are many versions of the matter, but the sum-total of them all is
that something uncanny has been flitting round the ship all night,
and that Sandie M'Donald of Peterhead and "lang" Peter Williamson of
Shetland saw it, as also did Mr. Milne on the bridge--so, having three
witnesses, they can make a better case of it than the second mate did.
I spoke to Milne after breakfast, and told him that he should be above
such nonsense, and that as an officer he ought to set the men a better
example. He shook his weather-beaten head ominously, but answered with
characteristic caution, "Mebbe aye, mebbe na, Doctor," he said; "I didna
ca' it a ghaist. I canna' say I preen my faith in sea-bogles an' the
like, though there's a mony as claims to ha' seen a' that and waur. I'm
no easy feared, but maybe your ain bluid would run a bit cauld, mun, if
instead o' speerin' aboot it in daylicht ye were wi' me last night, an'
seed an awfu' like shape, white an' gruesome, whiles here, whiles there,
an' it greetin' and ca'ing in the darkness like a bit lambie that hae
lost its mither. Ye would na' be sae ready to put it a' doon to auld
wives' clavers then, I'm thinkin'." I saw it was hopeless to reason with
him, so contented myself with begging him as a personal favour to call
me up the next time the spectre appeared--a request to which he acceded
with many ejaculations expressive of his hopes that such an opportunity
might never arise.

As I had hoped, the white desert behind us has become broken by many
thin streaks of water which intersect it in all directions. Our latitude
to-day was 80 degrees 52' N., which shows that there is a strong
southerly drift upon the pack. Should the wind continue favourable it
will break up as rapidly as it formed. At present we can do nothing but
smoke and wait and hope for the best. I am rapidly becoming a fatalist.
When dealing with such uncertain factors as wind and ice a man can be
nothing else. Perhaps it was the wind and sand of the Arabian deserts
which gave the minds of the original followers of Mahomet their tendency
to bow to kismet.

These spectral alarms have a very bad effect upon the Captain. I feared
that it might excite his sensitive mind, and endeavoured to conceal the
absurd story from him, but unfortunately he overheard one of the men
making an allusion to it, and insisted upon being informed about it. As
I had expected, it brought out all his latent lunacy in an exaggerated
form. I can hardly believe that this is the same man who discoursed
philosophy last night with the most critical acumen and coolest
judgment. He is pacing backwards and forwards upon the quarterdeck like
a caged tiger, stopping now and again to throw out his hands with a
yearning gesture, and stare impatiently out over the ice. He keeps up a
continual mutter to himself, and once he called out, "But a little time,
love--but a little time!" Poor fellow, it is sad to see a gallant seaman
and accomplished gentleman reduced to such a pass, and to think that
imagination and delusion can cow a mind to which real danger was but the
salt of life. Was ever a man in such a position as I, between a demented
captain and a ghost-seeing mate? I sometimes think I am the only really
sane man aboard the vessel--except perhaps the second engineer, who is
a kind of ruminant, and would care nothing for all the fiends in the Red
Sea so long as they would leave him alone and not disarrange his tools.

The ice is still opening rapidly, and there is every probability of
our being able to make a start to-morrow morning. They will think I
am inventing when I tell them at home all the strange things that have
befallen me.

12 P.M.--I have been a good deal startled, though I feel steadier now,
thanks to a stiff glass of brandy. I am hardly myself yet, however, as
this handwriting will testify. The fact is, that I have gone through
a very strange experience, and am beginning to doubt whether I was
justified in branding every one on board as madmen because they
professed to have seen things which did not seem reasonable to my
understanding. Pshaw! I am a fool to let such a trifle unnerve me; and
yet, coming as it does after all these alarms, it has an additional
significance, for I cannot doubt either Mr. Manson's story or that of
the mate, now that I have experienced that which I used formerly to
scoff at.

After all it was nothing very alarming--a mere sound, and that was all.
I cannot expect that any one reading this, if any one ever should read
it, will sympathise with my feelings, or realise the effect which it
produced upon me at the time. Supper was over, and I had gone on deck
to have a quiet pipe before turning in. The night was very dark--so dark
that, standing under the quarter-boat, I was unable to see the officer
upon the bridge. I think I have already mentioned the extraordinary
silence which prevails in these frozen seas. In other parts of the
world, be they ever so barren, there is some slight vibration of the
air--some faint hum, be it from the distant haunts of men, or from the
leaves of the trees, or the wings of the birds, or even the faint rustle
of the grass that covers the ground. One may not actively perceive the
sound, and yet if it were withdrawn it would be missed. It is only here
in these Arctic seas that stark, unfathomable stillness obtrudes itself
upon you in all its gruesome reality. You find your tympanum straining
to catch some little murmur, and dwelling eagerly upon every accidental
sound within the vessel. In this state I was leaning against the
bulwarks when there arose from the ice almost directly underneath me a
cry, sharp and shrill, upon the silent air of the night, beginning,
as it seemed to me, at a note such as prima donna never reached, and
mounting from that ever higher and higher until it culminated in a long
wail of agony, which might have been the last cry of a lost soul. The
ghastly scream is still ringing in my ears. Grief, unutterable grief,
seemed to be expressed in it, and a great longing, and yet through it
all there was an occasional wild note of exultation. It shrilled out
from close beside me, and yet as I glared into the darkness I could
discern nothing. I waited some little time, but without hearing any
repetition of the sound, so I came below, more shaken than I have ever
been in my life before. As I came down the companion I met Mr. Milne
coming up to relieve the watch. "Weel, Doctor," he said, "maybe that's
auld wives' clavers tae? Did ye no hear it skirling? Maybe that's a
supersteetion? What d'ye think o't noo?" I was obliged to apologise to
the honest fellow, and acknowledge that I was as puzzled by it as he
was. Perhaps to-morrow things may look different. At present I dare
hardly write all that I think. Reading it again in days to come, when
I have shaken off all these associations, I should despise myself for
having been so weak.

September 18th.--Passed a restless and uneasy night, still haunted by
that strange sound. The Captain does not look as if he had had much
repose either, for his face is haggard and his eyes bloodshot. I have
not told him of my adventure of last night, nor shall I. He is already
restless and excited, standing up, sitting down, and apparently utterly
unable to keep still.

A fine lead appeared in the pack this morning, as I had expected, and we
were able to cast off our ice-anchor, and steam about twelve miles in a
west-sou'-westerly direction. We were then brought to a halt by a
great floe as massive as any which we have left behind us. It bars our
progress completely, so we can do nothing but anchor again and wait
until it breaks up, which it will probably do within twenty-four hours,
if the wind holds. Several bladder-nosed seals were seen swimming in the
water, and one was shot, an immense creature more than eleven feet long.
They are fierce, pugnacious animals, and are said to be more than
a match for a bear. Fortunately they are slow and clumsy in their
movements, so that there is little danger in attacking them upon the
ice.

The Captain evidently does not think we have seen the last of our
troubles, though why he should take a gloomy view of the situation is
more than I can fathom, since every one else on board considers that we
have had a miraculous escape, and are sure now to reach the open sea.

"I suppose you think it's all right now, Doctor?" he said, as we sat
together after dinner.

"I hope so," I answered.

"We mustn't be too sure--and yet no doubt you are right. We'll all be
in the arms of our own true loves before long, lad, won't we? But we
mustn't be too sure--we mustn't be too sure."

He sat silent a little, swinging his leg thoughtfully backwards and
forwards. "Look here," he continued; "it's a dangerous place this, even
at its best--a treacherous, dangerous place. I have known men cut off
very suddenly in a land like this. A slip would do it sometimes--a
single slip, and down you go through a crack, and only a bubble on the
green water to show where it was that you sank. It's a queer thing,"
he continued with a nervous laugh, "but all the years I've been in this
country I never once thought of making a will--not that I have anything
to leave in particular, but still when a man is exposed to danger he
should have everything arranged and ready--don't you think so?"

"Certainly," I answered, wondering what on earth he was driving at.

"He feels better for knowing it's all settled," he went on. "Now if
anything should ever befall me, I hope that you will look after things
for me. There is very little in the cabin, but such as it is I should
like it to be sold, and the money divided in the same proportion as the
oil-money among the crew. The chronometer I wish you to keep yourself
as some slight remembrance of our voyage. Of course all this is a mere
precaution, but I thought I would take the opportunity of speaking
to you about it. I suppose I might rely upon you if there were any
necessity?"

"Most assuredly," I answered; "and since you are taking this step, I may
as well"----

"You! you!" he interrupted. "YOU'RE all right. What the devil is the
matter with YOU? There, I didn't mean to be peppery, but I don't like
to hear a young fellow, that has hardly began life, speculating about
death. Go up on deck and get some fresh air into your lungs instead of
talking nonsense in the cabin, and encouraging me to do the same."

The more I think of this conversation of ours the less do I like it. Why
should the man be settling his affairs at the very time when we seem to
be emerging from all danger? There must be some method in his madness.
Can it be that he contemplates suicide? I remember that upon one
occasion he spoke in a deeply reverent manner of the heinousness of the
crime of self-destruction. I shall keep my eye upon him, however, and
though I cannot obtrude upon the privacy of his cabin, I shall at least
make a point of remaining on deck as long as he stays up.

Mr. Milne pooh-poohs my fears, and says it is only the "skipper's little
way." He himself takes a very rosy view of the situation. According
to him we shall be out of the ice by the day after to-morrow, pass Jan
Meyen two days after that, and sight Shetland in little more than a
week. I hope he may not be too sanguine. His opinion may be fairly
balanced against the gloomy precautions of the Captain, for he is an old
and experienced seaman, and weighs his words well before uttering them.

                      *****

The long-impending catastrophe has come at last. I hardly know what to
write about it. The Captain is gone. He may come back to us again alive,
but I fear me--I fear me. It is now seven o'clock of the morning of the
19th of September. I have spent the whole night traversing the great
ice-floe in front of us with a party of seamen in the hope of coming
upon some trace of him, but in vain. I shall try to give some account of
the circumstances which attended upon his disappearance. Should any
one ever chance to read the words which I put down, I trust they will
remember that I do not write from conjecture or from hearsay, but that
I, a sane and educated man, am describing accurately what actually
occurred before my very eyes. My inferences are my own, but I shall be
answerable for the facts.

The Captain remained in excellent spirits after the conversation which
I have recorded. He appeared to be nervous and impatient, however,
frequently changing his position, and moving his limbs in an aimless
choreic way which is characteristic of him at times. In a quarter of an
hour he went upon deck seven times, only to descend after a few hurried
paces. I followed him each time, for there was something about his face
which confirmed my resolution of not letting him out of my sight. He
seemed to observe the effect which his movements had produced, for he
endeavoured by an over-done hilarity, laughing boisterously at the very
smallest of jokes, to quiet my apprehensions.

After supper he went on to the poop once more, and I with him. The night
was dark and very still, save for the melancholy soughing of the wind
among the spars. A thick cloud was coming up from the north-west, and the
ragged tentacles which it threw out in front of it were drifting across
the face of the moon, which only shone now and again through a rift in
the wrack. The Captain paced rapidly backwards and forwards, and then
seeing me still dogging him, he came across and hinted that he thought
I should be better below--which, I need hardly say, had the effect of
strengthening my resolution to remain on deck.

I think he forgot about my presence after this, for he stood silently
leaning over the taffrail, and peering out across the great desert of
snow, part of which lay in shadow, while part glittered mistily in
the moonlight. Several times I could see by his movements that he was
referring to his watch, and once he muttered a short sentence, of which
I could only catch the one word "ready." I confess to having felt an
eerie feeling creeping over me as I watched the loom of his tall figure
through the darkness, and noted how completely he fulfilled the idea of
a man who is keeping a tryst. A tryst with whom? Some vague perception
began to dawn upon me as I pieced one fact with another, but I was
utterly unprepared for the sequel.

By the sudden intensity of his attitude I felt that he saw something.
I crept up behind him. He was staring with an eager questioning gaze
at what seemed to be a wreath of mist, blown swiftly in a line with
the ship. It was a dim, nebulous body, devoid of shape, sometimes more,
sometimes less apparent, as the light fell on it. The moon was dimmed
in its brilliancy at the moment by a canopy of thinnest cloud, like the
coating of an anemone.

"Coming, lass, coming," cried the skipper, in a voice of unfathomable
tenderness and compassion, like one who soothes a beloved one by some
favour long looked for, and as pleasant to bestow as to receive.

What followed happened in an instant. I had no power to interfere.

He gave one spring to the top of the bulwarks, and another which took
him on to the ice, almost to the feet of the pale misty figure. He
held out his hands as if to clasp it, and so ran into the darkness with
outstretched arms and loving words. I still stood rigid and motionless,
straining my eyes after his retreating form, until his voice died away
in the distance. I never thought to see him again, but at that moment
the moon shone out brilliantly through a chink in the cloudy heaven, and
illuminated the great field of ice. Then I saw his dark figure already
a very long way off, running with prodigious speed across the frozen
plain. That was the last glimpse which we caught of him--perhaps
the last we ever shall. A party was organised to follow him, and I
accompanied them, but the men's hearts were not in the work, and nothing
was found. Another will be formed within a few hours. I can hardly
believe I have not been dreaming, or suffering from some hideous
nightmare, as I write these things down.

7.30 P.M.--Just returned dead beat and utterly tired out from a second
unsuccessful search for the Captain. The floe is of enormous extent, for
though we have traversed at least twenty miles of its surface, there has
been no sign of its coming to an end. The frost has been so severe of
late that the overlying snow is frozen as hard as granite, otherwise we
might have had the footsteps to guide us. The crew are anxious that we
should cast off and steam round the floe and so to the southward, for
the ice has opened up during the night, and the sea is visible upon the
horizon. They argue that Captain Craigie is certainly dead, and that
we are all risking our lives to no purpose by remaining when we have an
opportunity of escape. Mr. Milne and I have had the greatest difficulty
in persuading them to wait until to-morrow night, and have been
compelled to promise that we will not under any circumstances delay our
departure longer than that. We propose therefore to take a few hours'
sleep, and then to start upon a final search.

September 20th, evening.--I crossed the ice this morning with a party of
men exploring the southern part of the floe, while Mr. Milne went off
in a northerly direction. We pushed on for ten or twelve miles without
seeing a trace of any living thing except a single bird, which fluttered
a great way over our heads, and which by its flight I should judge to
have been a falcon. The southern extremity of the ice field tapered away
into a long narrow spit which projected out into the sea. When we came
to the base of this promontory, the men halted, but I begged them to
continue to the extreme end of it, that we might have the satisfaction
of knowing that no possible chance had been neglected.

We had hardly gone a hundred yards before M'Donald of Peterhead cried
out that he saw something in front of us, and began to run. We all got a
glimpse of it and ran too. At first it was only a vague darkness against
the white ice, but as we raced along together it took the shape of a
man, and eventually of the man of whom we were in search. He was lying
face downwards upon a frozen bank. Many little crystals of ice and
feathers of snow had drifted on to him as he lay, and sparkled upon his
dark seaman's jacket. As we came up some wandering puff of wind caught
these tiny flakes in its vortex, and they whirled up into the air,
partially descended again, and then, caught once more in the current,
sped rapidly away in the direction of the sea. To my eyes it seemed but
a snow-drift, but many of my companions averred that it started up in
the shape of a woman, stooped over the corpse and kissed it, and then
hurried away across the floe. I have learned never to ridicule any man's
opinion, however strange it may seem. Sure it is that Captain Nicholas
Craigie had met with no painful end, for there was a bright smile upon
his blue pinched features, and his hands were still outstretched as
though grasping at the strange visitor which had summoned him away into
the dim world that lies beyond the grave.

We buried him the same afternoon with the ship's ensign around him, and
a thirty-two pound shot at his feet. I read the burial service, while
the rough sailors wept like children, for there were many who owed much
to his kind heart, and who showed now the affection which his strange
ways had repelled during his lifetime. He went off the grating with a
dull, sullen splash, and as I looked into the green water I saw him go
down, down, down until he was but a little flickering patch of white
hanging upon the outskirts of eternal darkness. Then even that faded
away, and he was gone. There he shall lie, with his secret and his
sorrows and his mystery all still buried in his breast, until that great
day when the sea shall give up its dead, and Nicholas Craigie come out
from among the ice with the smile upon his face, and his stiffened arms
outstretched in greeting. I pray that his lot may be a happier one in
that life than it has been in this.

I shall not continue my journal. Our road to home lies plain and clear
before us, and the great ice field will soon be but a remembrance of
the past. It will be some time before I get over the shock produced by
recent events. When I began this record of our voyage I little thought
of how I should be compelled to finish it. I am writing these final
words in the lonely cabin, still starting at times and fancying I hear
the quick nervous step of the dead man upon the deck above me. I entered
his cabin to-night, as was my duty, to make a list of his effects in
order that they might be entered in the official log. All was as it
had been upon my previous visit, save that the picture which I have
described as having hung at the end of his bed had been cut out of its
frame, as with a knife, and was gone. With this last link in a strange
chain of evidence I close my diary of the voyage of the Pole-Star.


[NOTE by Dr. John M'Alister Ray, senior.--I have read over the strange
events connected with the death of the Captain of the Pole-Star, as
narrated in the journal of my son. That everything occurred exactly as
he describes it I have the fullest confidence, and, indeed, the
most positive certainty, for I know him to be a strong-nerved and
unimaginative man, with the strictest regard for veracity. Still, the
story is, on the face of it, so vague and so improbable, that I was long
opposed to its publication. Within the last few days, however, I have
had independent testimony upon the subject which throws a new light
upon it. I had run down to Edinburgh to attend a meeting of the British
Medical Association, when I chanced to come across Dr. P----, an old
college chum of mine, now practising at Saltash, in Devonshire. Upon my
telling him of this experience of my son's, he declared to me that he
was familiar with the man, and proceeded, to my no small surprise, to
give me a description of him, which tallied remarkably well with that
given in the journal, except that he depicted him as a younger man.
According to his account, he had been engaged to a young lady of
singular beauty residing upon the Cornish coast. During his absence at
sea his betrothed had died under circumstances of peculiar horror.]




J. HABAKUK JEPHSON'S STATEMENT.

In the month of December in the year 1873, the British ship Dei Gratia
steered into Gibraltar, having in tow the derelict brigantine Marie
Celeste, which had been picked up in latitude 38 degrees 40', longitude
17 degrees 15' W. There were several circumstances in connection with
the condition and appearance of this abandoned vessel which excited
considerable comment at the time, and aroused a curiosity which has
never been satisfied. What these circumstances were was summed up in an
able article which appeared in the Gibraltar Gazette. The curious can
find it in the issue for January 4, 1874, unless my memory deceives me.
For the benefit of those, however, who may be unable to refer to the
paper in question, I shall subjoin a few extracts which touch upon the
leading features of the case.

"We have ourselves," says the anonymous writer in the Gazette, "been
over the derelict Marie Celeste, and have closelY questioned the officers
of the Dei Gratia on every point which might throw light on the affair.
They are of opinion that she had been abandoned several days, or perhaps
weeks, before being picked up. The official log, which was found in the
cabin, states that the vessel sailed from Boston to Lisbon, starting
upon October 16. It is, however, most imperfectly kept, and affords
little information. There is no reference to rough weather, and, indeed,
the state of the vessel's paint and rigging excludes the idea that she
was abandoned for any such reason. She is perfectly watertight. No signs
of a struggle or of violence are to be detected, and there is absolutely
nothing to account for the disappearance of the crew. There are several
indications that a lady was present on board, a sewing-machine being
found in the cabin and some articles of female attire. These probably
belonged to the captain's wife, who is mentioned in the log as having
accompanied her husband. As an instance of the mildness of the weather,
it may be remarked that a bobbin of silk was found standing upon
the sewing-machine, though the least roll of the vessel would have
precipitated it to the floor. The boats were intact and slung upon the
davits; and the cargo, consisting of tallow and American clocks, was
untouched. An old-fashioned sword of curious workmanship was discovered
among some lumber in the forecastle, and this weapon is said to exhibit
a longitudinal striation on the steel, as if it had been recently wiped.
It has been placed in the hands of the police, and submitted to Dr.
Monaghan, the analyst, for inspection. The result of his examination
has not yet been published. We may remark, in conclusion, that Captain
Dalton, of the Dei Gratia, an able and intelligent seaman, is of opinion
that the Marie Celeste may have been abandoned a considerable distance
from the spot at which she was picked up, since a powerful current runs
up in that latitude from the African coast. He confesses his inability,
however, to advance any hypothesis which can reconcile all the facts of
the case. In the utter absence of a clue or grain of evidence, it is to
be feared that the fate of the crew of the Marie Celeste will be added
to those numerous mysteries of the deep which will never be solved until
the great day when the sea shall give up its dead. If crime has been
committed, as is much to be suspected, there is little hope of bringing
the perpetrators to justice."

I shall supplement this extract from the Gibraltar Gazette by quoting
a telegram from Boston, which went the round of the English papers, and
represented the total amount of information which had been collected
about the Marie Celeste. "She was," it said, "a brigantine of 170 tons
burden, and belonged to White, Russell & White, wine importers, of this
city. Captain J. W. Tibbs was an old servant of the firm, and was a man
of known ability and tried probity. He was accompanied by his wife, aged
thirty-one, and their youngest child, five years old. The crew consisted
of seven hands, including two  seamen, and a boy. There were
three passengers, one of whom was the well-known Brooklyn specialist on
consumption, Dr. Habakuk Jephson, who was a distinguished advocate
for Abolition in the early days of the movement, and whose pamphlet,
entitled "Where is thy Brother?" exercised a strong influence on public
opinion before the war. The other passengers were Mr. J. Harton, a
writer in the employ of the firm, and Mr. Septimius Goring, a half-caste
gentleman, from New Orleans. All investigations have failed to throw
any light upon the fate of these fourteen human beings. The loss of Dr.
Jephson will be felt both in political and scientific circles."

I have here epitomised, for the benefit of the public, all that has been
hitherto known concerning the Marie Celeste and her crew, for the past
ten years have not in any way helped to elucidate the mystery. I have
now taken up my pen with the intention of telling all that I know of the
ill-fated voyage. I consider that it is a duty which I owe to society,
for symptoms which I am familiar with in others lead me to believe
that before many months my tongue and hand may be alike incapable of
conveying information. Let me remark, as a preface to my narrative, that
I am Joseph Habakuk Jephson, Doctor of Medicine of the University
of Harvard, and ex-Consulting Physician of the Samaritan Hospital of
Brooklyn.

Many will doubtless wonder why I have not proclaimed myself before,
and why I have suffered so many conjectures and surmises to pass
unchallenged. Could the ends of justice have been served in any way by
my revealing the facts in my possession I should unhesitatingly have
done so. It seemed to me, however, that there was no possibility of such
a result; and when I attempted, after the occurrence, to state my case
to an English official, I was met with such offensive incredulity that
I determined never again to expose myself to the chance of such an
indignity. I can excuse the discourtesy of the Liverpool magistrate,
however, when I reflect upon the treatment which I received at the hands
of my own relatives, who, though they knew my unimpeachable character,
listened to my statement with an indulgent smile as if humouring the
delusion of a monomaniac. This slur upon my veracity led to a quarrel
between myself and John Vanburger, the brother of my wife, and
confirmed me in my resolution to let the matter sink into oblivion--a
determination which I have only altered through my son's solicitations.
In order to make my narrative intelligible, I must run lightly over one
or two incidents in my former life which throw light upon subsequent
events.

My father, William K. Jephson, was a preacher of the sect called
Plymouth Brethren, and was one of the most respected citizens of Lowell.
Like most of the other Puritans of New England, he was a determined
opponent to slavery, and it was from his lips that I received those
lessons which tinged every action of my life. While I was studying
medicine at Harvard University, I had already made a mark as an advanced
Abolitionist; and when, after taking my degree, I bought a third share
of the practice of Dr. Willis, of Brooklyn, I managed, in spite of my
professional duties, to devote a considerable time to the cause which I
had at heart, my pamphlet, "Where is thy Brother?" (Swarburgh, Lister &
Co., 1859) attracting considerable attention.

When the war broke out I left Brooklyn and accompanied the 113th New
York Regiment through the campaign. I was present at the second battle
of Bull's Run and at the battle of Gettysburg. Finally, I was severely
wounded at Antietam, and would probably have perished on the field had
it not been for the kindness of a gentleman named Murray, who had me
carried to his house and provided me with every comfort. Thanks to his
charity, and to the nursing which I received from his black domestics,
I was soon able to get about the plantation with the help of a stick. It
was during this period of convalescence that an incident occurred which
is closely connected with my story.

Among the most assiduous of the negresses who had watched my couch
during my illness there was one old crone who appeared to exert
considerable authority over the others. She was exceedingly attentive
to me, and I gathered from the few words that passed between us that
she had heard of me, and that she was grateful to me for championing her
oppressed race.

One day as I was sitting alone in the verandah, basking in the sun, and
debating whether I should rejoin Grant's army, I was surprised to see
this old creature hobbling towards me. After looking cautiously around
to see that we were alone, she fumbled in the front of her dress and
produced a small chamois leather bag which was hung round her neck by a
white cord.

"Massa," she said, bending down and croaking the words into my ear,
"me die soon. Me very old woman. Not stay long on Massa Murray's
plantation."

"You may live a long time yet, Martha," I answered. "You know I am a
doctor. If you feel ill let me know about it, and I will try to cure
you."

"No wish to live--wish to die. I'm gwine to join the heavenly host."
Here she relapsed into one of those half-heathenish rhapsodies in which
<DW64>s indulge. "But, massa, me have one thing must leave behind me
when I go. No able to take it with me across the Jordan. That one thing
very precious, more precious and more holy than all thing else in the
world. Me, a poor old black woman, have this because my people, very
great people, 'spose they was back in the old country. But you cannot
understand this same as black folk could. My fader give it me, and his
fader give it him, but now who shall I give it to? Poor Martha hab no
child, no relation, nobody. All round I see black man very bad man.
Black woman very stupid woman. Nobody worthy of the stone. And so I say,
Here is Massa Jephson who write books and fight for  folk--he
must be good man, and he shall have it though he is white man, and
nebber can know what it mean or where it came from." Here the old woman
fumbled in the chamois leather bag and pulled out a flattish black
stone with a hole through the middle of it. "Here, take it," she said,
pressing it into my hand; "take it. No harm nebber come from anything
good. Keep it safe--nebber lose it!" and with a warning gesture the old
crone hobbled away in the same cautious way as she had come, looking
from side to side to see if we had been observed.

I was more amused than impressed by the old woman's earnestness, and was
only prevented from laughing during her oration by the fear of hurting
her feelings. When she was gone I took a good look at the stone which
she had given me. It was intensely black, of extreme hardness, and oval
in shape--just such a flat stone as one would pick up on the seashore if
one wished to throw a long way. It was about three inches long, and an
inch and a half broad at the middle, but rounded off at the extremities.
The most curious part about it were several well-marked ridges which ran
in semicircles over its surface, and gave it exactly the appearance of a
human ear. Altogether I was rather interested in my new possession,
and determined to submit it, as a geological specimen, to my friend
Professor Shroeder of the New York Institute, upon the earliest
opportunity. In the meantime I thrust it into my pocket, and rising from
my chair started off for a short stroll in the shrubbery, dismissing the
incident from my mind.

As my wound had nearly healed by this time, I took my leave of Mr.
Murray shortly afterwards. The Union armies were everywhere victorious
and converging on Richmond, so that my assistance seemed unnecessary,
and I returned to Brooklyn. There I resumed my practice, and married the
second daughter of Josiah Vanburger, the well-known wood engraver. In
the course of a few years I built up a good connection and acquired
considerable reputation in the treatment of pulmonary complaints. I
still kept the old black stone in my pocket, and frequently told the
story of the dramatic way in which I had become possessed of it. I also
kept my resolution of showing it to Professor Shroeder, who was much
interested both by the anecdote and the specimen. He pronounced it to
be a piece of meteoric stone, and drew my attention to the fact that its
resemblance to an ear was not accidental, but that it was most carefully
worked into that shape. A dozen little anatomical points showed that the
worker had been as accurate as he was skilful. "I should not wonder,"
said the Professor, "if it were broken off from some larger statue,
though how such hard material could be so perfectly worked is more than
I can understand. If there is a statue to correspond I should like to
see it!" So I thought at the time, but I have changed my opinion since.

The next seven or eight years of my life were quiet and uneventful.

Summer followed spring, and spring followed winter, without any
variation in my duties. As the practice increased I admitted J. S.
Jackson as partner, he to have one-fourth of the profits. The continued
strain had told upon my constitution, however, and I became at last so
unwell that my wife insisted upon my consulting Dr. Kavanagh Smith, who
was my colleague at the Samaritan Hospital.

That gentleman examined me, and pronounced the apex of my left lung to
be in a state of consolidation, recommending me at the same time to go
through a course of medical treatment and to take a long sea-voyage.

My own disposition, which is naturally restless, predisposed me strongly
in favour of the latter piece of advice, and the matter was clinched
by my meeting young Russell, of the firm of White, Russell & White, who
offered me a passage in one of his father's ships, the Marie Celeste,
which was just starting from Boston. "She is a snug little ship," he
said, "and Tibbs, the captain, is an excellent fellow. There is nothing
like a sailing ship for an invalid." I was very much of the same opinion
myself, so I closed with the offer on the spot.

My original plan was that my wife should accompany me on my travels.
She has always been a very poor sailor, however, and there were strong
family reasons against her exposing herself to any risk at the time, so
we determined that she should remain at home. I am not a religious or an
effusive man; but oh, thank God for that! As to leaving my practice, I
was easily reconciled to it, as Jackson, my partner, was a reliable and
hard-working man.

I arrived in Boston on October 12, 1873, and proceeded immediately to
the office of the firm in order to thank them for their courtesy. As
I was sitting in the counting-house waiting until they should be
at liberty to see me, the words Marie Celeste suddenly attracted my
attention. I looked round and saw a very tall, gaunt man, who was
leaning across the polished mahogany counter asking some questions of
the clerk at the other side. His face was turned half towards me, and
I could see that he had a strong dash of <DW64> blood in him, being
probably a quadroon or even nearer akin to the black. His curved
aquiline nose and straight lank hair showed the white strain; but the
dark restless eye, sensuous mouth, and gleaming teeth all told of his
African origin. His complexion was of a sickly, unhealthy yellow, and as
his face was deeply pitted with small-pox, the general impression was so
unfavourable as to be almost revolting. When he spoke, however, it
was in a soft, melodious voice, and in well-chosen words, and he was
evidently a man of some education.

"I wished to ask a few questions about the Marie Celeste," he repeated,
leaning across to the clerk. "She sails the day after to-morrow, does
she not?"

"Yes, sir," said the young clerk, awed into unusual politeness by the
glimmer of a large diamond in the stranger's shirt front.

"Where is she bound for?"

"Lisbon."

"How many of a crew?"

"Seven, sir."

"Passengers?"

"Yes, two. One of our young gentlemen, and a doctor from New York."

"No gentleman from the South?" asked the stranger eagerly.

"No, none, sir."

"Is there room for another passenger?"

"Accommodation for three more," answered the clerk.

"I'll go," said the quadroon decisively; "I'll go, I'll engage my
passage at once. Put it down, will you--Mr. Septimius Goring, of New
Orleans."

The clerk filled up a form and handed it over to the stranger, pointing
to a blank space at the bottom. As Mr. Goring stooped over to sign it
I was horrified to observe that the fingers of his right hand had been
lopped off, and that he was holding the pen between his thumb and the
palm. I have seen thousands slain in battle, and assisted at every
conceivable surgical operation, but I cannot recall any sight which gave
me such a thrill of disgust as that great brown sponge-like hand with
the single member protruding from it. He used it skilfully enough,
however, for, dashing off his signature, he nodded to the clerk and
strolled out of the office just as Mr. White sent out word that he was
ready to receive me.

I went down to the Marie Celeste that evening, and looked over my
berth, which was extremely comfortable considering the small size of the
vessel. Mr. Goring, whom I had seen in the morning, was to have the one
next mine. Opposite was the captain's cabin and a small berth for Mr.
John Harton, a gentleman who was going out in the interests of the firm.
These little rooms were arranged on each side of the passage which led
from the main-deck to the saloon. The latter was a comfortable room,
the panelling tastefully done in oak and mahogany, with a rich
Brussels carpet and luxurious settees. I was very much pleased with the
accommodation, and also with Tibbs the captain, a bluff, sailor-like
fellow, with a loud voice and hearty manner, who welcomed me to the ship
with effusion, and insisted upon our splitting a bottle of wine in his
cabin. He told me that he intended to take his wife and youngest child
with him on the voyage, and that he hoped with good luck to make Lisbon
in three weeks. We had a pleasant chat and parted the best of friends,
he warning me to make the last of my preparations next morning, as he
intended to make a start by the midday tide, having now shipped all
his cargo. I went back to my hotel, where I found a letter from my wife
awaiting me, and, after a refreshing night's sleep, returned to the
boat in the morning. From this point I am able to quote from the journal
which I kept in order to vary the monotony of the long sea-voyage. If
it is somewhat bald in places I can at least rely upon its accuracy in
details, as it was written conscientiously from day to day.

October 16.--Cast off our warps at half-past two and were towed out into
the bay, where the tug left us, and with all sail set we bowled along at
about nine knots an hour. I stood upon the poop watching the low land of
America sinking gradually upon the horizon until the evening haze hid it
from my sight. A single red light, however, continued to blaze balefully
behind us, throwing a long track like a trail of blood upon the water,
and it is still visible as I write, though reduced to a mere speck. The
Captain is in a bad humour, for two of his hands disappointed him at
the last moment, and he was compelled to ship a couple of <DW64>s
who happened to be on the quay. The missing men were steady, reliable
fellows, who had been with him several voyages, and their non-appearance
puzzled as well as irritated him. Where a crew of seven men have to work
a fair-sized ship the loss of two experienced seamen is a serious one,
for though the <DW64>s may take a spell at the wheel or swab the decks,
they are of little or no use in rough weather. Our cook is also a black
man, and Mr. Septimius Goring has a little darkie servant, so that we
are rather a piebald community. The accountant, John Harton, promises to
be an acquisition, for he is a cheery, amusing young fellow. Strange how
little wealth has to do with happiness! He has all the world before him
and is seeking his fortune in a far land, yet he is as transparently
happy as a man can be. Goring is rich, if I am not mistaken, and so am
I; but I know that I have a lung, and Goring has some deeper trouble
still, to judge by his features. How poorly do we both contrast with the
careless, penniless clerk!

October 17.--Mrs. Tibbs appeared upon deck for the first time this
morning--a cheerful, energetic woman, with a dear little child just able
to walk and prattle. Young Harton pounced on it at once, and carried
it away to his cabin, where no doubt he will lay the seeds of future
dyspepsia in the child's stomach. Thus medicine doth make cynics of us
all! The weather is still all that could be desired, with a fine fresh
breeze from the west-sou'-west. The vessel goes so steadily that you
would hardly know that she was moving were it not for the creaking of
the cordage, the bellying of the sails, and the long white furrow in our
wake. Walked the quarter-deck all morning with the Captain, and I think
the keen fresh air has already done my breathing good, for the exercise
did not fatigue me in any way. Tibbs is a remarkably intelligent man,
and we had an interesting argument about Maury's observations on ocean
currents, which we terminated by going down into his cabin to consult
the original work. There we found Goring, rather to the Captain's
surprise, as it is not usual for passengers to enter that sanctum unless
specially invited. He apologised for his intrusion, however, pleading
his ignorance of the usages of ship life; and the good-natured sailor
simply laughed at the incident, begging him to remain and favour us with
his company. Goring pointed to the chronometers, the case of which
he had opened, and remarked that he had been admiring them. He has
evidently some practical knowledge of mathematical instruments, as he
told at a glance which was the most trustworthy of the three, and also
named their price within a few dollars. He had a discussion with the
Captain too upon the variation of the compass, and when we came back to
the ocean currents he showed a thorough grasp of the subject. Altogether
he rather improves upon acquaintance, and is a man of decided culture
and refinement. His voice harmonises with his conversation, and both are
the very antithesis of his face and figure.

The noonday observation shows that we have run two hundred and twenty
miles. Towards evening the breeze freshened up, and the first mate
ordered reefs to be taken in the topsails and top-gallant sails in
expectation of a windy night. I observe that the barometer has fallen to
twenty-nine. I trust our voyage will not be a rough one, as I am a poor
sailor, and my health would probably derive more harm than good from
a stormy trip, though I have the greatest confidence in the Captain's
seamanship and in the soundness of the vessel. Played cribbage with Mrs.
Tibbs after supper, and Harton gave us a couple of tunes on the violin.

October 18.--The gloomy prognostications of last night were not
fulfilled, as the wind died away again, and we are lying now in a long
greasy swell, ruffled here and there by a fleeting catspaw which is
insufficient to fill the sails. The air is colder than it was yesterday,
and I have put on one of the thick woollen jerseys which my wife knitted
for me. Harton came into my cabin in the morning, and we had a cigar
together. He says that he remembers having seen Goring in Cleveland,
Ohio, in '69. He was, it appears, a mystery then as now, wandering
about without any visible employment, and extremely reticent on his own
affairs. The man interests me as a psychological study. At breakfast
this morning I suddenly had that vague feeling of uneasiness which comes
over some people when closely stared at, and, looking quickly up, I
met his eyes bent upon me with an intensity which amounted to ferocity,
though their expression instantly softened as he made some conventional
remark upon the weather. Curiously enough, Harton says that he had
a very similar experience yesterday upon deck. I observe that Goring
frequently talks to the  seamen as he strolls about--a trait
which I rather admire, as it is common to find half-breeds ignore their
dark strain and treat their black kinsfolk with greater intolerance than
a white man would do. His little page is devoted to him, apparently,
which speaks well for his treatment of him. Altogether, the man is a
curious mixture of incongruous qualities, and unless I am deceived in
him will give me food for observation during the voyage.

The Captain is grumbling about his chronometers, which do not register
exactly the same time. He says it is the first time that they have ever
disagreed. We were unable to get a noonday observation on account of the
haze. By dead reckoning, we have done about a hundred and seventy miles
in the twenty-four hours. The dark seamen have proved, as the skipper
prophesied, to be very inferior hands, but as they can both manage the
wheel well they are kept steering, and so leave the more experienced men
to work the ship. These details are trivial enough, but a small thing
serves as food for gossip aboard ship. The appearance of a whale in the
evening caused quite a flutter among us. From its sharp back and forked
tail, I should pronounce it to have been a rorqual, or "finner," as they
are called by the fishermen.

October 19.--Wind was cold, so I prudently remained in my cabin all day,
only creeping out for dinner. Lying in my bunk I can, without moving,
reach my books, pipes, or anything else I may want, which is one
advantage of a small apartment. My old wound began to ache a little
to-day, probably from the cold. Read "Montaigne's Essays" and nursed
myself. Harton came in in the afternoon with Doddy, the Captain's child,
and the skipper himself followed, so that I held quite a reception.

October 20 and 21.--Still cold, with a continual drizzle of rain, and
I have not been able to leave the cabin. This confinement makes me feel
weak and depressed. Goring came in to see me, but his company did not
tend to cheer me up much, as he hardly uttered a word, but contented
himself with staring at me in a peculiar and rather irritating manner.
He then got up and stole out of the cabin without saying anything. I am
beginning to suspect that the man is a lunatic. I think I mentioned that
his cabin is next to mine. The two are simply divided by a thin wooden
partition which is cracked in many places, some of the cracks being
so large that I can hardly avoid, as I lie in my bunk, observing his
motions in the adjoining room. Without any wish to play the spy, I see
him continually stooping over what appears to be a chart and working
with a pencil and compasses. I have remarked the interest he displays
in matters connected with navigation, but I am surprised that he should
take the trouble to work out the course of the ship. However, it is a
harmless amusement enough, and no doubt he verifies his results by those
of the Captain.

I wish the man did not run in my thoughts so much. I had a nightmare on
the night of the 20th, in which I thought my bunk was a coffin, that I
was laid out in it, and that Goring was endeavouring to nail up the
lid, which I was frantically pushing away. Even when I woke up, I could
hardly persuade myself that I was not in a coffin. As a medical man, I
know that a nightmare is simply a vascular derangement of the cerebral
hemispheres, and yet in my weak state I cannot shake off the morbid
impression which it produces.

October 22.--A fine day, with hardly a cloud in the sky, and a fresh
breeze from the sou'-west which wafts us gaily on our way. There has
evidently been some heavy weather near us, as there is a tremendous
swell on, and the ship lurches until the end of the fore-yard nearly
touches the water. Had a refreshing walk up and down the quarter-deck,
though I have hardly found my sea-legs yet. Several small
birds--chaffinches, I think--perched in the rigging.

4.40 P.M.--While I was on deck this morning I heard a sudden explosion
from the direction of my cabin, and, hurrying down, found that I had
very nearly met with a serious accident. Goring was cleaning a revolver,
it seems, in his cabin, when one of the barrels which he thought was
unloaded went off. The ball passed through the side partition and
imbedded itself in the bulwarks in the exact place where my head usually
rests. I have been under fire too often to magnify trifles, but there is
no doubt that if I had been in the bunk it must have killed me. Goring,
poor fellow, did not know that I had gone on deck that day, and must
therefore have felt terribly frightened. I never saw such emotion in a
man's face as when, on rushing out of his cabin with the smoking pistol
in his hand, he met me face to face as I came down from deck. Of
course, he was profuse in his apologies, though I simply laughed at the
incident.

11 P.M.--A misfortune has occurred so unexpected and so horrible that
my little escape of the morning dwindles into insignificance. Mrs. Tibbs
and her child have disappeared--utterly and entirely disappeared. I can
hardly compose myself to write the sad details.

About half-past eight Tibbs rushed into my cabin with a very white face
and asked me if I had seen his wife. I answered that I had not. He then
ran wildly into the saloon and began groping about for any trace of her,
while I followed him, endeavouring vainly to persuade him that his fears
were ridiculous. We hunted over the ship for an hour and a half without
coming on any sign of the missing woman or child. Poor Tibbs lost
his voice completely from calling her name. Even the sailors, who are
generally stolid enough, were deeply affected by the sight of him as
he roamed bareheaded and dishevelled about the deck, searching with
feverish anxiety the most impossible places, and returning to them again
and again with a piteous pertinacity. The last time she was seen was
about seven o'clock, when she took Doddy on to the poop to give him a
breath of fresh air before putting him to bed. There was no one there
at the time except the black seaman at the wheel, who denies having seen
her at all. The whole affair is wrapped in mystery. My own theory
is that while Mrs. Tibbs was holding the child and standing near the
bulwarks it gave a spring and fell overboard, and that in her convulsive
attempt to catch or save it, she followed it. I cannot account for the
double disappearance in any other way. It is quite feasible that such a
tragedy should be enacted without the knowledge of the man at the wheel,
since it was dark at the time, and the peaked skylights of the saloon
screen the greater part of the quarter-deck. Whatever the truth may be
it is a terrible catastrophe, and has cast the darkest gloom upon our
voyage. The mate has put the ship about, but of course there is not the
slightest hope of picking them up. The Captain is lying in a state of
stupor in his cabin. I gave him a powerful dose of opium in his coffee
that for a few hours at least his anguish may be deadened.

October 23.--Woke with a vague feeling of heaviness and misfortune, but
it was not until a few moments' reflection that I was able to recall
our loss of the night before. When I came on deck I saw the poor skipper
standing gazing back at the waste of waters behind us which contains
everything dear to him upon earth. I attempted to speak to him, but he
turned brusquely away, and began pacing the deck with his head sunk upon
his breast. Even now, when the truth is so clear, he cannot pass a boat
or an unbent sail without peering under it. He looks ten years older
than he did yesterday morning. Harton is terribly cut up, for he was
fond of little Doddy, and Goring seems sorry too. At least he has shut
himself up in his cabin all day, and when I got a casual glance at him
his head was resting on his two hands as if in a melancholy reverie. I
fear we are about as dismal a crew as ever sailed. How shocked my wife
will be to hear of our disaster! The swell has gone down now, and we
are doing about eight knots with all sail set and a nice little breeze.
Hyson is practically in command of the ship, as Tibbs, though he does
his best to bear up and keep a brave front, is incapable of applying
himself to serious work.

October 24.--Is the ship accursed? Was there ever a voyage which began
so fairly and which changed so disastrously? Tibbs shot himself through
the head during the night. I was awakened about three o'clock in the
morning by an explosion, and immediately sprang out of bed and rushed
into the Captain's cabin to find out the cause, though with a terrible
presentiment in my heart. Quickly as I went, Goring went more quickly
still, for he was already in the cabin stooping over the dead body of
the Captain. It was a hideous sight, for the whole front of his face
was blown in, and the little room was swimming in blood. The pistol was
lying beside him on the floor, just as it had dropped from his hand. He
had evidently put it to his mouth before pulling the trigger. Goring
and I picked him reverently up and laid him on his bed. The crew had all
clustered into his cabin, and the six white men were deeply grieved, for
they were old hands who had sailed with him many years. There were dark
looks and murmurs among them too, and one of them openly declared that
the ship was haunted. Harton helped to lay the poor skipper out, and
we did him up in canvas between us. At twelve o'clock the foreyard was
hauled aback, and we committed his body to the deep, Goring reading the
Church of England burial service. The breeze has freshened up, and we
have done ten knots all day and sometimes twelve. The sooner we reach
Lisbon and get away from this accursed ship the better pleased shall I
be. I feel as though we were in a floating coffin.

Little wonder that the poor sailors are superstitious when I, an
educated man, feel it so strongly.

October 25.--Made a good run all day. Feel listless and depressed.

October 26.--Goring, Harton, and I had a chat together on deck in the
morning. Harton tried to draw Goring out as to his profession, and his
object in going to Europe, but the quadroon parried all his questions
and gave us no information. Indeed, he seemed to be slightly offended
by Harton's pertinacity, and went down into his cabin. I wonder why
we should both take such an interest in this man! I suppose it is his
striking appearance, coupled with his apparent wealth, which piques our
curiosity. Harton has a theory that he is really a detective, that he
is after some criminal who has got away to Portugal, and that he chooses
this peculiar way of travelling that he may arrive unnoticed and
pounce upon his quarry unawares. I think the supposition is rather a
far-fetched one, but Harton bases it upon a book which Goring left
on deck, and which he picked up and glanced over. It was a sort of
scrap-book it seems, and contained a large number of newspaper cuttings.
All these cuttings related to murders which had been committed at
various times in the States during the last twenty years or so. The
curious thing which Harton observed about them, however, was that they
were invariably murders the authors of which had never been brought
to justice. They varied in every detail, he says, as to the manner of
execution and the social status of the victim, but they uniformly wound
up with the same formula that the murderer was still at large, though,
of course, the police had every reason to expect his speedy capture.
Certainly the incident seems to support Harton's theory, though it
may be a mere whim of Gorings, or, as I suggested to Harton, he may be
collecting materials for a book which shall outvie De Quincey. In any
case it is no business of ours.

October 27, 28.--Wind still fair, and we are making good progress.
Strange how easily a human unit may drop out of its place and be
forgotten! Tibbs is hardly ever mentioned now; Hyson has taken
possession of his cabin, and all goes on as before. Were it not for
Mrs. Tibbs's sewing-machine upon a side-table we might forget that the
unfortunate family had ever existed. Another accident occurred on board
to-day, though fortunately not a very serious one. One of our white
hands had gone down the afterhold to fetch up a spare coil of rope, when
one of the hatches which he had removed came crashing down on the top of
him. He saved his life by springing out of the way, but one of his feet
was terribly crushed, and he will be of little use for the remainder of
the voyage. He attributes the accident to the carelessness of his <DW64>
companion, who had helped him to shift the hatches. The latter, however,
puts it down to the roll of the ship. Whatever be the cause, it reduces
our shorthanded crew still further. This run of ill-luck seems to be
depressing Harton, for he has lost his usual good spirits and joviality.
Goring is the only one who preserves his cheerfulness. I see him still
working at his chart in his own cabin. His nautical knowledge would be
useful should anything happen to Hyson--which God forbid!

October 29, 30.--Still bowling along with a fresh breeze. All quiet and
nothing of note to chronicle.

October 31.--My weak lungs, combined with the exciting episodes of the
voyage, have shaken my nervous system so much that the most trivial
incident affects me. I can hardly believe that I am the same man who
tied the external iliac artery, an operation requiring the nicest
precision, under a heavy rifle fire at Antietam. I am as nervous as a
child. I was lying half dozing last night about four bells in the middle
watch trying in vain to drop into a refreshing sleep. There was no light
inside my cabin, but a single ray of moonlight streamed in through the
port-hole, throwing a silvery flickering circle upon the door. As I lay
I kept my drowsy eyes upon this circle, and was conscious that it was
gradually becoming less well-defined as my senses left me, when I was
suddenly recalled to full wakefulness by the appearance of a small
dark object in the very centre of the luminous disc. I lay quietly and
breathlessly watching it. Gradually it grew larger and plainer, and then
I perceived that it was a human hand which had been cautiously inserted
through the chink of the half-closed door--a hand which, as I observed
with a thrill of horror, was not provided with fingers. The door swung
cautiously backwards, and Goring's head followed his hand. It appeared
in the centre of the moonlight, and was framed as it were in a ghastly
uncertain halo, against which his features showed out plainly. It seemed
to me that I had never seen such an utterly fiendish and merciless
expression upon a human face. His eyes were dilated and glaring, his
lips drawn back so as to show his white fangs, and his straight black
hair appeared to bristle over his low forehead like the hood of a cobra.
The sudden and noiseless apparition had such an effect upon me that I
sprang up in bed trembling in every limb, and held out my hand towards
my revolver. I was heartily ashamed of my hastiness when he explained
the object of his intrusion, as he immediately did in the most courteous
language. He had been suffering from toothache, poor fellow! and had
come in to beg some laudanum, knowing that I possessed a medicine chest.
As to a sinister expression he is never a beauty, and what with my state
of nervous tension and the effect of the shifting moonlight it was easy
to conjure up something horrible. I gave him twenty drops, and he went
off again with many expressions of gratitude. I can hardly say how much
this trivial incident affected me. I have felt unstrung all day.

A week's record of our voyage is here omitted, as nothing eventful
occurred during the time, and my log consists merely of a few pages of
unimportant gossip.

November 7.--Harton and I sat on the poop all the morning, for the
weather is becoming very warm as we come into southern latitudes. We
reckon that we have done two-thirds of our voyage. How glad we shall
be to see the green banks of the Tagus, and leave this unlucky ship for
ever! I was endeavouring to amuse Harton to-day and to while away the
time by telling him some of the experiences of my past life. Among
others I related to him how I came into the possession of my black
stone, and as a finale I rummaged in the side pocket of my old shooting
coat and produced the identical object in question. He and I were
bending over it together, I pointing out to him the curious ridges upon
its surface, when we were conscious of a shadow falling between us and
the sun, and looking round saw Goring standing behind us glaring over
our shoulders at the stone. For some reason or other he appeared to be
powerfully excited, though he was evidently trying to control himself
and to conceal his emotion. He pointed once or twice at my relic with
his stubby thumb before he could recover himself sufficiently to ask
what it was and how I obtained it--a question put in such a brusque
manner that I should have been offended had I not known the man to be an
eccentric. I told him the story very much as I had told it to Harton. He
listened with the deepest interest, and then asked me if I had any idea
what the stone was. I said I had not, beyond that it was meteoric. He
asked me if I had ever tried its effect upon a <DW64>. I said I had not.
"Come," said he, "we'll see what our black friend at the wheel thinks
of it." He took the stone in his hand and went across to the sailor,
and the two examined it carefully. I could see the man gesticulating and
nodding his head excitedly as if making some assertion, while his face
betrayed the utmost astonishment, mixed I think with some reverence.
Goring came across the deck to us presently, still holding the stone in
his hand. "He says it is a worthless, useless thing," he said, "and fit
only to be chucked overboard," with which he raised his hand and would
most certainly have made an end of my relic, had the black sailor behind
him not rushed forward and seized him by the wrist. Finding himself
secured Goring dropped the stone and turned away with a very bad grace
to avoid my angry remonstrances at his breach of faith. The black
picked up the stone and handed it to me with a low bow and every sign of
profound respect. The whole affair is inexplicable. I am rapidly coming
to the conclusion that Goring is a maniac or something very near
one. When I compare the effect produced by the stone upon the sailor,
however, with the respect shown to Martha on the plantation, and the
surprise of Goring on its first production, I cannot but come to the
conclusion that I have really got hold of some powerful talisman which
appeals to the whole dark race. I must not trust it in Goring's hands
again.

November 8, 9.--What splendid weather we are having! Beyond one little
blow, we have had nothing but fresh breezes the whole voyage. These two
days we have made better runs than any hitherto.

It is a pretty thing to watch the spray fly up from our prow as it cuts
through the waves. The sun shines through it and breaks it up into a
number of miniature rainbows--"sun-dogs," the sailors call them. I stood
on the fo'csle-head for several hours to-day watching the effect, and
surrounded by a halo of prismatic colours.

The steersman has evidently told the other blacks about my wonderful
stone, for I am treated by them all with the greatest respect. Talking
about optical phenomena, we had a curious one yesterday evening which
was pointed out to me by Hyson. This was the appearance of a triangular
well-defined object high up in the heavens to the north of us. He
explained that it was exactly like the Peak of Teneriffe as seen from
a great distance--the peak was, however, at that moment at least five
hundred miles to the south. It may have been a cloud, or it may have
been one of those strange reflections of which one reads. The weather
is very warm. The mate says that he never knew it so warm in these
latitudes. Played chess with Harton in the evening.

November 10.--It is getting warmer and warmer. Some land birds came and
perched in the rigging today, though we are still a considerable way
from our destination. The heat is so great that we are too lazy to do
anything but lounge about the decks and smoke. Goring came over to me
to-day and asked me some more questions about my stone; but I answered
him rather shortly, for I have not quite forgiven him yet for the cool
way in which he attempted to deprive me of it.

November 11, 12.--Still making good progress. I had no idea Portugal was
ever as hot as this, but no doubt it is cooler on land. Hyson himself
seemed surprised at it, and so do the men.

November 13.--A most extraordinary event has happened, so extraordinary
as to be almost inexplicable. Either Hyson has blundered wonderfully,
or some magnetic influence has disturbed our instruments. Just about
daybreak the watch on the fo'csle-head shouted out that he heard the
sound of surf ahead, and Hyson thought he saw the loom of land. The ship
was put about, and, though no lights were seen, none of us doubted that
we had struck the Portuguese coast a little sooner than we had expected.
What was our surprise to see the scene which was revealed to us at break
of day! As far as we could look on either side was one long line of
surf, great, green billows rolling in and breaking into a cloud of foam.
But behind the surf what was there! Not the green banks nor the
high cliffs of the shores of Portugal, but a great sandy waste which
stretched away and away until it blended with the skyline. To right and
left, look where you would, there was nothing but yellow sand, heaped
in some places into fantastic mounds, some of them several hundred feet
high, while in other parts were long stretches as level apparently as a
billiard board. Harton and I, who had come on deck together, looked
at each other in astonishment, and Harton burst out laughing. Hyson
is exceedingly mortified at the occurrence, and protests that the
instruments have been tampered with. There is no doubt that this is the
mainland of Africa, and that it was really the Peak of Teneriffe which
we saw some days ago upon the northern horizon. At the time when we saw
the land birds we must have been passing some of the Canary Islands. If
we continued on the same course, we are now to the north of Cape Blanco,
near the unexplored country which skirts the great Sahara. All we can
do is to rectify our instruments as far as possible and start afresh for
our destination.

8.30 P.M.--Have been lying in a calm all day. The coast is now about a
mile and a half from us. Hyson has examined the instruments, but cannot
find any reason for their extraordinary deviation.

This is the end of my private journal, and I must make the remainder of
my statement from memory. There is little chance of my being mistaken
about facts which have seared themselves into my recollection. That very
night the storm which had been brewing so long burst over us, and I came
to learn whither all those little incidents were tending which I had
recorded so aimlessly. Blind fool that I was not to have seen it sooner!
I shall tell what occurred as precisely as I can.

I had gone into my cabin about half-past eleven, and was preparing to go
to bed, when a tap came at my door. On opening it I saw Goring's little
black page, who told me that his master would like to have a word with
me on deck. I was rather surprised that he should want me at such a late
hour, but I went up without hesitation. I had hardly put my foot on the
quarter-deck before I was seized from behind, dragged down upon my back,
and a handkerchief slipped round my mouth. I struggled as hard as I
could, but a coil of rope was rapidly and firmly wound round me, and I
found myself lashed to the davit of one of the boats, utterly powerless
to do or say anything, while the point of a knife pressed to my throat
warned me to cease my struggles. The night was so dark that I had
been unable hitherto to recognise my assailants, but as my eyes became
accustomed to the gloom, and the moon broke out through the clouds that
obscured it, I made out that I was surrounded by the two <DW64> sailors,
the black cook, and my fellow-passenger Goring. Another man was
crouching on the deck at my feet, but he was in the shadow and I could
not recognise him.

All this occurred so rapidly that a minute could hardly have elapsed
from the time I mounted the companion until I found myself gagged and
powerless. It was so sudden that I could scarce bring myself to realise
it, or to comprehend what it all meant. I heard the gang round me
speaking in short, fierce whispers to each other, and some instinct told
me that my life was the question at issue. Goring spoke authoritatively
and angrily--the others doggedly and all together, as if disputing his
commands. Then they moved away in a body to the opposite side of
the deck, where I could still hear them whispering, though they were
concealed from my view by the saloon skylights.

All this time the voices of the watch on deck chatting and laughing at
the other end of the ship were distinctly audible, and I could see them
gathered in a group, little dreaming of the dark doings which were going
on within thirty yards of them. Oh! that I could have given them one
word of warning, even though I had lost my life in doing it! but it was
impossible. The moon was shining fitfully through the scattered clouds,
and I could see the silvery gleam of the surge, and beyond it the vast
weird desert with its fantastic sand-hills. Glancing down, I saw that
the man who had been crouching on the deck was still lying there, and
as I gazed at him, a flickering ray of moonlight fell full upon his
upturned face. Great Heaven! even now, when more than twelve years
have elapsed, my hand trembles as I write that, in spite of distorted
features and projecting eyes, I recognised the face of Harton, the
cheery young clerk who had been my companion during the voyage. It
needed no medical eye to see that he was quite dead, while the twisted
handkerchief round the neck, and the gag in his mouth, showed the
silent way in which the hell-hounds had done their work. The clue which
explained every event of our voyage came upon me like a flash of light
as I gazed on poor Harton's corpse. Much was dark and unexplained, but I
felt a great dim perception of the truth.

I heard the striking of a match at the other side of the skylights, and
then I saw the tall, gaunt figure of Goring standing up on the bulwarks
and holding in his hands what appeared to be a dark lantern. He lowered
this for a moment over the side of the ship, and, to my inexpressible
astonishment, I saw it answered instantaneously by a flash among the
sand-hills on shore, which came and went so rapidly, that unless I
had been following the direction of Goring's gaze, I should never have
detected it. Again he lowered the lantern, and again it was answered
from the shore. He then stepped down from the bulwarks, and in doing so
slipped, making such a noise, that for a moment my heart bounded with
the thought that the attention of the watch would be directed to
his proceedings. It was a vain hope. The night was calm and the ship
motionless, so that no idea of duty kept them vigilant. Hyson, who after
the death of Tibbs was in command of both watches, had gone below to
snatch a few hours' sleep, and the boatswain who was left in charge was
standing with the other two men at the foot of the foremast. Powerless,
speechless, with the cords cutting into my flesh and the murdered man at
my feet, I awaited the next act in the tragedy.

The four ruffians were standing up now at the other side of the deck.
The cook was armed with some sort of a cleaver, the others had knives,
and Goring had a revolver. They were all leaning against the rail and
looking out over the water as if watching for something. I saw one of
them grasp another's arm and point as if at some object, and following
the direction I made out the loom of a large moving mass making towards
the ship. As it emerged from the gloom I saw that it was a great canoe
crammed with men and propelled by at least a score of paddles. As it
shot under our stern the watch caught sight of it also, and raising
a cry hurried aft. They were too late, however. A swarm of gigantic
<DW64>s clambered over the quarter, and led by Goring swept down the
deck in an irresistible torrent. All opposition was overpowered in a
moment, the unarmed watch were knocked over and bound, and the sleepers
dragged out of their bunks and secured in the same manner.

Hyson made an attempt to defend the narrow passage leading to his cabin,
and I heard a scuffle, and his voice shouting for assistance. There
was none to assist, however, and he was brought on to the poop with the
blood streaming from a deep cut in his forehead. He was gagged like the
others, and a council was held upon our fate by the <DW64>s. I saw our
black seamen pointing towards me and making some statement, which was
received with murmurs of astonishment and incredulity by the savages.
One of them then came over to me, and plunging his hand into my pocket
took out my black stone and held it up. He then handed it to a man who
appeared to be a chief, who examined it as minutely as the light would
permit, and muttering a few words passed it on to the warrior beside
him, who also scrutinised it and passed it on until it had gone from
hand to hand round the whole circle. The chief then said a few words
to Goring in the native tongue, on which the quadroon addressed me in
English. At this moment I seem to see the scene. The tall masts of the
ship with the moonlight streaming down, silvering the yards and bringing
the network of cordage into hard relief; the group of dusky warriors
leaning on their spears; the dead man at my feet; the line of
white-faced prisoners, and in front of me the loathsome half-breed,
looking in his white linen and elegant clothes a strange contrast to his
associates.

"You will bear me witness," he said in his softest accents, "that I am
no party to sparing your life. If it rested with me you would die as
these other men are about to do. I have no personal grudge against
either you or them, but I have devoted my life to the destruction of the
white race, and you are the first that has ever been in my power and has
escaped me. You may thank that stone of yours for your life. These poor
fellows reverence it, and indeed if it really be what they think it
is they have cause. Should it prove when we get ashore that they are
mistaken, and that its shape and material is a mere chance, nothing can
save your life. In the meantime we wish to treat you well, so if there
are any of your possessions which you would like to take with you, you
are at liberty to get them." As he finished he gave a sign, and a couple
of the <DW64>s unbound me, though without removing the gag. I was
led down into the cabin, where I put a few valuables into my pockets,
together with a pocket-compass and my journal of the voyage. They then
pushed me over the side into a small canoe, which was lying beside the
large one, and my guards followed me, and shoving off began paddling for
the shore. We had got about a hundred yards or so from the ship when
our steersman held up his hand, and the paddlers paused for a moment
and listened. Then on the silence of the night I heard a sort of dull,
moaning sound, followed by a succession of splashes in the water. That
is all I know of the fate of my poor shipmates. Almost immediately
afterwards the large canoe followed us, and the deserted ship was left
drifting about--a dreary, spectre-like hulk. Nothing was taken from her
by the savages. The whole fiendish transaction was carried through as
decorously and temperately as though it were a religious rite.

The first grey of daylight was visible in the east as we passed through
the surge and reached the shore. Leaving half-a-dozen men with the
canoes, the rest of the <DW64>s set off through the sand-hills, leading
me with them, but treating me very gently and respectfully. It was
difficult walking, as we sank over our ankles into the loose, shifting
sand at every step, and I was nearly dead beat by the time we reached
the native village, or town rather, for it was a place of considerable
dimensions. The houses were conical structures not unlike bee-hives,
and were made of compressed seaweed cemented over with a rude form of
mortar, there being neither stick nor stone upon the coast nor anywhere
within many hundreds of miles. As we entered the town an enormous crowd
of both sexes came swarming out to meet us, beating tom-toms and howling
and screaming. On seeing me they redoubled their yells and assumed a
threatening attitude, which was instantly quelled by a few words shouted
by my escort. A buzz of wonder succeeded the war-cries and yells of the
moment before, and the whole dense mass proceeded down the broad central
street of the town, having my escort and myself in the centre.

My statement hitherto may seem so strange as to excite doubt in the
minds of those who do not know me, but it was the fact which I am now
about to relate which caused my own brother-in-law to insult me by
disbelief. I can but relate the occurrence in the simplest words, and
trust to chance and time to prove their truth. In the centre of this
main street there was a large building, formed in the same primitive way
as the others, but towering high above them; a stockade of beautifully
polished ebony rails was planted all round it, the framework of the door
was formed by two magnificent elephant's tusks sunk in the ground on
each side and meeting at the top, and the aperture was closed by a
screen of native cloth richly embroidered with gold. We made our way
to this imposing-looking structure, but, on reaching the opening in the
stockade, the multitude stopped and squatted down upon their hams, while
I was led through into the enclosure by a few of the chiefs and
elders of the tribe, Goring accompanying us, and in fact directing the
proceedings. On reaching the screen which closed the temple--for such it
evidently was--my hat and my shoes were removed, and I was then led in,
a venerable old <DW64> leading the way carrying in his hand my stone,
which had been taken from my pocket. The building was only lit up by
a few long slits in the roof, through which the tropical sun poured,
throwing broad golden bars upon the clay floor, alternating with
intervals of darkness.

The interior was even larger than one would have imagined from the
outside appearance. The walls were hung with native mats, shells, and
other ornaments, but the remainder of the great space was quite empty,
with the exception of a single object in the centre. This was the figure
of a colossal <DW64>, which I at first thought to be some real king or
high priest of titanic size, but as I approached it I saw by the way in
which the light was reflected from it that it was a statue admirably cut
in jet-black stone. I was led up to this idol, for such it seemed to be,
and looking at it closer I saw that though it was perfect in every other
respect, one of its ears had been broken short off. The grey-haired
<DW64> who held my relic mounted upon a small stool, and stretching up
his arm fitted Martha's black stone on to the jagged surface on the side
of the statue's head. There could not be a doubt that the one had been
broken off from the other. The parts dovetailed together so accurately
that when the old man removed his hand the ear stuck in its place for
a few seconds before dropping into his open palm. The group round
me prostrated themselves upon the ground at the sight with a cry of
reverence, while the crowd outside, to whom the result was communicated,
set up a wild whooping and cheering.

In a moment I found myself converted from a prisoner into a demi-god.
I was escorted back through the town in triumph, the people pressing
forward to touch my clothing and to gather up the dust on which my foot
had trod. One of the largest huts was put at my disposal, and a banquet
of every native delicacy was served me. I still felt, however, that I
was not a free man, as several spearmen were placed as a guard at the
entrance of my hut. All day my mind was occupied with plans of escape,
but none seemed in any way feasible. On the one side was the great arid
desert stretching away to Timbuctoo, on the other was a sea untraversed
by vessels. The more I pondered over the problem the more hopeless did
it seem.

I little dreamed how near I was to its solution.

Night had fallen, and the clamour of the <DW64>s had died gradually
away. I was stretched on the couch of skins which had been provided
for me, and was still meditating over my future, when Goring walked
stealthily into the hut. My first idea was that he had come to complete
his murderous holocaust by making away with me, the last survivor, and
I sprang up upon my feet, determined to defend myself to the last.
He smiled when he saw the action, and motioned me down again while he
seated himself upon the other end of the couch.

"What do you think of me?" was the astonishing question with which he
commenced our conversation.

"Think of you!" I almost yelled. "I think you the vilest, most unnatural
renegade that ever polluted the earth. If we were away from these black
devils of yours I would strangle you with my hands!"

"Don't speak so loud," he said, without the slightest appearance
of irritation. "I don't want our chat to be cut short. So you would
strangle me, would you!" he went on, with an amused smile. "I suppose I
am returning good for evil, for I have come to help you to escape."

"You!" I gasped incredulously.

"Yes, I," he continued.

"Oh, there is no credit to me in the matter. I am quite consistent.
There is no reason why I should not be perfectly candid with you. I wish
to be king over these fellows--not a very high ambition, certainly, but
you know what Caesar said about being first in a village in Gaul. Well,
this unlucky stone of yours has not only saved your life, but has turned
all their heads so that they think you are come down from heaven, and
my influence will be gone until you are out of the way. That is why I am
going to help you to escape, since I cannot kill you"--this in the most
natural and dulcet voice, as if the desire to do so were a matter of
course.

"You would give the world to ask me a few questions," he went on, after
a pause; "but you are too proud to do it. Never mind, I'll tell you one
or two things, because I want your fellow white men to know them when
you go back--if you are lucky enough to get back. About that cursed
stone of yours, for instance. These <DW64>s, or at least so the legend
goes, were Mahometans originally. While Mahomet himself was still alive,
there was a schism among his followers, and the smaller party moved away
from Arabia, and eventually crossed Africa. They took away with them, in
their exile, a valuable relic of their old faith in the shape of a large
piece of the black stone of Mecca. The stone was a meteoric one, as you
may have heard, and in its fall upon the earth it broke into two pieces.
One of these pieces is still at Mecca. The larger piece was carried away
to Barbary, where a skilful worker modelled it into the fashion which
you saw to-day. These men are the descendants of the original seceders
from Mahomet, and they have brought their relic safely through all their
wanderings until they settled in this strange place, where the desert
protects them from their enemies."

"And the ear?" I asked, almost involuntarily.

"Oh, that was the same story over again. Some of the tribe wandered away
to the south a few hundred years ago, and one of them, wishing to have
good luck for the enterprise, got into the temple at night and carried
off one of the ears. There has been a tradition among the <DW64>s ever
since that the ear would come back some day. The fellow who carried
it was caught by some slaver, no doubt, and that was how it got
into America, and so into your hands--and you have had the honour of
fulfilling the prophecy."

He paused for a few minutes, resting his head upon his hands, waiting
apparently for me to speak. When he looked up again, the whole
expression of his face had changed. His features were firm and set, and
he changed the air of half levity with which he had spoken before for
one of sternness and almost ferocity.

"I wish you to carry a message back," he said, "to the white race,
the great dominating race whom I hate and defy. Tell them that I have
battened on their blood for twenty years, that I have slain them
until even I became tired of what had once been a joy, that I did this
unnoticed and unsuspected in the face of every precaution which their
civilisation could suggest. There is no satisfaction in revenge when
your enemy does not know who has struck him. I am not sorry, therefore,
to have you as a messenger. There is no need why I should tell you
how this great hate became born in me. See this," and he held up his
mutilated hand; "that was done by a white man's knife. My father was
white, my mother was a slave. When he died she was sold again, and I, a
child then, saw her lashed to death to break her of some of the little
airs and graces which her late master had encouraged in her. My young
wife, too, oh, my young wife!" a shudder ran through his whole frame.
"No matter! I swore my oath, and I kept it. From Maine to Florida, and
from Boston to San Francisco, you could track my steps by sudden deaths
which baffled the police. I warred against the whole white race as they
for centuries had warred against the black one. At last, as I tell you,
I sickened of blood. Still, the sight of a white face was abhorrent to
me, and I determined to find some bold free black people and to throw
in my lot with them, to cultivate their latent powers, and to form
a nucleus for a great  nation. This idea possessed me, and I
travelled over the world for two years seeking for what I desired. At
last I almost despaired of finding it. There was no hope of regeneration
in the slave-dealing Soudanese, the debased Fantee, or the Americanised
<DW64>s of Liberia. I was returning from my quest when chance brought me
in contact with this magnificent tribe of dwellers in the desert, and I
threw in my lot with them. Before doing so, however, my old instinct of
revenge prompted me to make one last visit to the United States, and I
returned from it in the Marie Celeste.

"As to the voyage itself, your intelligence will have told you by this
time that, thanks to my manipulation, both compasses and chronometers
were entirely untrustworthy. I alone worked out the course with correct
instruments of my own, while the steering was done by my black friends
under my guidance. I pushed Tibbs's wife overboard. What! You look
surprised and shrink away. Surely you had guessed that by this time. I
would have shot you that day through the partition, but unfortunately
you were not there. I tried again afterwards, but you were awake. I shot
Tibbs. I think the idea of suicide was carried out rather neatly.
Of course when once we got on the coast the rest was simple. I had
bargained that all on board should die; but that stone of yours upset my
plans. I also bargained that there should be no plunder. No one can
say we are pirates. We have acted from principle, not from any sordid
motive."

I listened in amazement to the summary of his crimes which this strange
man gave me, all in the quietest and most composed of voices, as though
detailing incidents of every-day occurrence. I still seem to see him
sitting like a hideous nightmare at the end of my couch, with the single
rude lamp flickering over his cadaverous features.

"And now," he continued, "there is no difficulty about your escape.
These stupid adopted children of mine will say that you have gone back
to heaven from whence you came. The wind blows off the land. I have
a boat all ready for you, well stored with provisions and water. I am
anxious to be rid of you, so you may rely that nothing is neglected.
Rise up and follow me."

I did what he commanded, and he led me through the door of the hut.

The guards had either been withdrawn, or Goring had arranged matters
with them. We passed unchallenged through the town and across the sandy
plain. Once more I heard the roar of the sea, and saw the long white
line of the surge. Two figures were standing upon the shore arranging
the gear of a small boat. They were the two sailors who had been with us
on the voyage.

"See him safely through the surf," said Goring. The two men sprang in
and pushed off, pulling me in after them. With mainsail and jib we ran
out from the land and passed safely over the bar. Then my two companions
without a word of farewell sprang overboard, and I saw their heads like
black dots on the white foam as they made their way back to the shore,
while I scudded away into the blackness of the night. Looking back I
caught my last glimpse of Goring. He was standing upon the summit of a
sand-hill, and the rising moon behind him threw his gaunt angular figure
into hard relief. He was waving his arms frantically to and fro; it may
have been to encourage me on my way, but the gestures seemed to me at
the time to be threatening ones, and I have often thought that it was
more likely that his old savage instinct had returned when he realised
that I was out of his power. Be that as it may, it was the last that I
ever saw or ever shall see of Septimius Goring.

There is no need for me to dwell upon my solitary voyage. I steered as
well as I could for the Canaries, but was picked up upon the fifth day
by the British and African Steam Navigation Company's boat Monrovia.
Let me take this opportunity of tendering my sincerest thanks to Captain
Stornoway and his officers for the great kindness which they showed me
from that time till they landed me in Liverpool, where I was enabled to
take one of the Guion boats to New York.

From the day on which I found myself once more in the bosom of my family
I have said little of what I have undergone. The subject is still an
intensely painful one to me, and the little which I have dropped
has been discredited. I now put the facts before the public as they
occurred, careless how far they may be believed, and simply writing them
down because my lung is growing weaker, and I feel the responsibility of
holding my peace longer. I make no vague statement. Turn to your map of
Africa. There above Cape Blanco, where the land trends away north and
south from the westernmost point of the continent, there it is that
Septimius Goring still reigns over his dark subjects, unless retribution
has overtaken him; and there, where the long green ridges run swiftly in
to roar and hiss upon the hot yellow sand, it is there that Harton lies
with Hyson and the other poor fellows who were done to death in the
Marie Celeste.




THE GREAT KEINPLATZ EXPERIMENT.

Of all the sciences which have puzzled the sons of men, none had such
an attraction for the learned Professor von Baumgarten as those which
relate to psychology and the ill-defined relations between mind and
matter. A celebrated anatomist, a profound chemist, and one of the first
physiologists in Europe, it was a relief for him to turn from these
subjects and to bring his varied knowledge to bear upon the study of
the soul and the mysterious relationship of spirits. At first, when as a
young man he began to dip into the secrets of mesmerism, his mind seemed
to be wandering in a strange land where all was chaos and darkness,
save that here and there some great unexplainable and disconnected fact
loomed out in front of him. As the years passed, however, and as the
worthy Professor's stock of knowledge increased, for knowledge begets
knowledge as money bears interest, much which had seemed strange and
unaccountable began to take another shape in his eyes. New trains of
reasoning became familiar to him, and he perceived connecting links
where all had been incomprehensible and startling.

By experiments which extended over twenty years, he obtained a basis
of facts upon which it was his ambition to build up a new exact science
which should embrace mesmerism, spiritualism, and all cognate subjects.
In this he was much helped by his intimate knowledge of the more
intricate parts of animal physiology which treat of nerve currents and
the working of the brain; for Alexis von Baumgarten was Regius Professor
of Physiology at the University of Keinplatz, and had all the resources
of the laboratory to aid him in his profound researches.

Professor von Baumgarten was tall and thin, with a hatchet face and
steel-grey eyes, which were singularly bright and penetrating. Much
thought had furrowed his forehead and contracted his heavy eyebrows, so
that he appeared to wear a perpetual frown, which often misled people
as to his character, for though austere he was tender-hearted. He
was popular among the students, who would gather round him after his
lectures and listen eagerly to his strange theories. Often he would call
for volunteers from amongst them in order to conduct some experiment, so
that eventually there was hardly a lad in the class who had not, at one
time or another, been thrown into a mesmeric trance by his Professor.

Of all these young devotees of science there was none who equalled
in enthusiasm Fritz von Hartmann. It had often seemed strange to his
fellow-students that wild, reckless Fritz, as dashing a young fellow
as ever hailed from the Rhinelands, should devote the time and trouble
which he did in reading up abstruse works and in assisting the Professor
in his strange experiments. The fact was, however, that Fritz was a
knowing and long-headed fellow. Months before he had lost his heart
to young Elise, the blue-eyed, yellow-haired daughter of the lecturer.
Although he had succeeded in learning from her lips that she was not
indifferent to his suit, he had never dared to announce himself to her
family as a formal suitor. Hence he would have found it a difficult
matter to see his young lady had he not adopted the expedient of making
himself useful to the Professor. By this means he frequently was asked
to the old man's house, where he willingly submitted to be experimented
upon in any way as long as there was a chance of his receiving one
bright glance from the eyes of Elise or one touch of her little hand.

Young Fritz von Hartmann was a handsome lad enough. There were broad
acres, too, which would descend to him when his father died. To many
he would have seemed an eligible suitor; but Madame frowned upon his
presence in the house, and lectured the Professor at times on his
allowing such a wolf to prowl around their lamb. To tell the truth,
Fritz had an evil name in Keinplatz. Never was there a riot or a duel,
or any other mischief afoot, but the young Rhinelander figured as a
ringleader in it. No one used more free and violent language, no one
drank more, no one played cards more habitually, no one was more idle,
save in the one solitary subject.

No wonder, then, that the good Frau Professorin gathered her Fraulein
under her wing, and resented the attentions of such a mauvais sujet. As
to the worthy lecturer, he was too much engrossed by his strange studies
to form an opinion upon the subject one way or the other.

For many years there was one question which had continually obtruded
itself upon his thoughts. All his experiments and his theories turned
upon a single point. A hundred times a day the Professor asked himself
whether it was possible for the human spirit to exist apart from
the body for a time and then to return to it once again. When the
possibility first suggested itself to him his scientific mind had
revolted from it. It clashed too violently with preconceived ideas
and the prejudices of his early training. Gradually, however, as he
proceeded farther and farther along the pathway of original research,
his mind shook off its old fetters and became ready to face any
conclusion which could reconcile the facts. There were many things
which made him believe that it was possible for mind to exist apart
from matter. At last it occurred to him that by a daring and original
experiment the question might be definitely decided.

"It is evident," he remarked in his celebrated article upon invisible
entities, which appeared in the Keinplatz wochenliche Medicalschrift
about this time, and which surprised the whole scientific world--"it
is evident that under certain conditions the soul or mind does separate
itself from the body. In the case of a mesmerised person, the body lies
in a cataleptic condition, but the spirit has left it. Perhaps you reply
that the soul is there, but in a dormant condition. I answer that
this is not so, otherwise how can one account for the condition of
clairvoyance, which has fallen into disrepute through the knavery of
certain scoundrels, but which can easily be shown to be an undoubted
fact. I have been able myself, with a sensitive subject, to obtain an
accurate description of what was going on in another room or another
house. How can such knowledge be accounted for on any hypothesis save
that the soul of the subject has left the body and is wandering through
space? For a moment it is recalled by the voice of the operator and
says what it has seen, and then wings its way once more through the air.
Since the spirit is by its very nature invisible, we cannot see these
comings and goings, but we see their effect in the body of the subject,
now rigid and inert, now struggling to narrate impressions which could
never have come to it by natural means. There is only one way which I
can see by which the fact can be demonstrated. Although we in the flesh
are unable to see these spirits, yet our own spirits, could we separate
them from the body, would be conscious of the presence of others. It is
my intention, therefore, shortly to mesmerise one of my pupils. I shall
then mesmerise myself in a manner which has become easy to me. After
that, if my theory holds good, my spirit will have no difficulty in
meeting and communing with the spirit of my pupil, both being separated
from the body. I hope to be able to communicate the result of this
interesting experiment in an early number of the Keinplatz wochenliche
Medicalschrift."

When the good Professor finally fulfilled his promise, and published an
account of what occurred, the narrative was so extraordinary that it was
received with general incredulity. The tone of some of the papers was
so offensive in their comments upon the matter that the angry savant
declared that he would never open his mouth again or refer to the
subject in any way--a promise which he has faithfully kept. This
narrative has been compiled, however, from the most authentic sources,
and the events cited in it may be relied upon as substantially correct.

It happened, then, that shortly after the time when Professor von
Baumgarten conceived the idea of the above-mentioned experiment, he was
walking thoughtfully homewards after a long day in the laboratory, when
he met a crowd of roystering students who had just streamed out from a
beer-house. At the head of them, half-intoxicated and very noisy, was
young Fritz von Hartmann. The Professor would have passed them, but his
pupil ran across and intercepted him.

"Heh! my worthy master," he said, taking the old man by the sleeve, and
leading him down the road with him. "There is something that I have to
say to you, and it is easier for me to say it now, when the good beer is
humming in my head, than at another time."

"What is it, then, Fritz?" the physiologist asked, looking at him in
mild surprise.

"I hear, mein herr, that you are about to do some wondrous experiment in
which you hope to take a man's soul out of his body, and then to put it
back again. Is it not so?"

"It is true, Fritz."

"And have you considered, my dear sir, that you may have some difficulty
in finding some one on whom to try this? Potztausend! Suppose that the
soul went out and would not come back. That would be a bad business. Who
is to take the risk?"

"But, Fritz," the Professor cried, very much startled by this view of
the matter, "I had relied upon your assistance in the attempt. Surely
you will not desert me. Consider the honour and glory."

"Consider the fiddlesticks!" the student cried angrily. "Am I to be paid
always thus? Did I not stand two hours upon a glass insulator while
you poured electricity into my body? Have you not stimulated my phrenic
nerves, besides ruining my digestion with a galvanic current round my
stomach? Four-and-thirty times you have mesmerised me, and what have I
got from all this? Nothing. And now you wish to take my soul out, as you
would take the works from a watch. It is more than flesh and blood can
stand."

"Dear, dear!" the Professor cried in great distress. "That is very true,
Fritz. I never thought of it before. If you can but suggest how I can
compensate you, you will find me ready and willing."

"Then listen," said Fritz solemnly. "If you will pledge your word that
after this experiment I may have the hand of your daughter, then I am
willing to assist you; but if not, I shall have nothing to do with it.
These are my only terms."

"And what would my daughter say to this?" the Professor exclaimed, after
a pause of astonishment.

"Elise would welcome it," the young man replied. "We have loved each
other long."

"Then she shall be yours," the physiologist said with decision, "for you
are a good-hearted young man, and one of the best neurotic subjects
that I have ever known--that is when you are not under the influence of
alcohol. My experiment is to be performed upon the fourth of next month.
You will attend at the physiological laboratory at twelve o'clock. It
will be a great occasion, Fritz. Von Gruben is coming from Jena, and
Hinterstein from Basle. The chief men of science of all South Germany
will be there.

"I shall be punctual," the student said briefly; and so the two parted.
The Professor plodded homeward, thinking of the great coming event,
while the young man staggered along after his noisy companions, with
his mind full of the blue-eyed Elise, and of the bargain which he had
concluded with her father.

The Professor did not exaggerate when he spoke of the widespread
interest excited by his novel psychophysiological experiment. Long
before the hour had arrived the room was filled by a galaxy of talent.
Besides the celebrities whom he had mentioned, there had come from
London the great Professor Lurcher, who had just established his
reputation by a remarkable treatise upon cerebral centres. Several great
lights of the Spiritualistic body had also come a long distance to
be present, as had a Swedenborgian minister, who considered that the
proceedings might throw some light upon the doctrines of the Rosy Cross.

There was considerable applause from this eminent assembly upon
the appearance of Professor von Baumgarten and his subject upon the
platform. The lecturer, in a few well-chosen words, explained what his
views were, and how he proposed to test them. "I hold," he said, "that
when a person is under the influence of mesmerism, his spirit is for the
time released from his body, and I challenge any one to put forward
any other hypothesis which will account for the fact of clairvoyance.
I therefore hope that upon mesmerising my young friend here, and
then putting myself into a trance, our spirits may be able to commune
together, though our bodies lie still and inert. After a time nature
will resume her sway, our spirits will return into our respective
bodies, and all will be as before. With your kind permission, we shall
now proceed to attempt the experiment."

The applause was renewed at this speech, and the audience settled down
in expectant silence. With a few rapid passes the Professor mesmerised
the young man, who sank back in his chair, pale and rigid. He then took
a bright globe of glass from his pocket, and by concentrating his gaze
upon it and making a strong mental effort, he succeeded in throwing
himself into the same condition. It was a strange and impressive sight
to see the old man and the young sitting together in the same cataleptic
condition. Whither, then, had their souls fled? That was the question
which presented itself to each and every one of the spectators.

Five minutes passed, and then ten, and then fifteen, and then fifteen
more, while the Professor and his pupil sat stiff and stark upon the
platform. During that time not a sound was heard from the assembled
savants, but every eye was bent upon the two pale faces, in search of
the first signs of returning consciousness. Nearly an hour had elapsed
before the patient watchers were rewarded. A faint flush came back to
the cheeks of Professor von Baumgarten. The soul was coming back once
more to its earthly tenement. Suddenly he stretched out his long thin
arms, as one awaking from sleep, and rubbing his eyes, stood up from
his chair and gazed about him as though he hardly realised where he was.
"Tausend Teufel!" he exclaimed, rapping out a tremendous South German
oath, to the great astonishment of his audience and to the disgust of
the Swedenborgian. "Where the Henker am I then, and what in thunder
has occurred? Oh yes, I remember now. One of these nonsensical mesmeric
experiments. There is no result this time, for I remember nothing at all
since I became unconscious; so you have had all your long journeys for
nothing, my learned friends, and a very good joke too;" at which the
Regius Professor of Physiology burst into a roar of laughter and slapped
his thigh in a highly indecorous fashion. The audience were so enraged
at this unseemly behaviour on the part of their host, that there might
have been a considerable disturbance, had it not been for the judicious
interference of young Fritz von Hartmann, who had now recovered from
his lethargy. Stepping to the front of the platform, the young man
apologised for the conduct of his companion. "I am sorry to say," he
said, "that he is a harum-scarum sort of fellow, although he appeared so
grave at the commencement of this experiment. He is still suffering from
mesmeric reaction, and is hardly accountable for his words. As to the
experiment itself, I do not consider it to be a failure. It is very
possible that our spirits may have been communing in space during this
hour; but, unfortunately, our gross bodily memory is distinct from our
spirit, and we cannot recall what has occurred. My energies shall now be
devoted to devising some means by which spirits may be able to recollect
what occurs to them in their free state, and I trust that when I have
worked this out, I may have the pleasure of meeting you all once again
in this hall, and demonstrating to you the result." This address, coming
from so young a student, caused considerable astonishment among the
audience, and some were inclined to be offended, thinking that he
assumed rather too much importance. The majority, however, looked upon
him as a young man of great promise, and many comparisons were made as
they left the hall between his dignified conduct and the levity of
his professor, who during the above remarks was laughing heartily in a
corner, by no means abashed at the failure of the experiment.

Now although all these learned men were filing out of the lecture-room
under the impression that they had seen nothing of note, as a matter of
fact one of the most wonderful things in the whole history of the world
had just occurred before their very eyes Professor von Baumgarten had
been so far correct in his theory that both his spirit and that of his
pupil had been for a time absent from his body. But here a strange and
unforeseen complication had occurred. In their return the spirit of
Fritz von Hartmann had entered into the body of Alexis von Baumgarten,
and that of Alexis von Baumgarten had taken up its abode in the frame of
Fritz von Hartmann. Hence the slang and scurrility which issued from
the lips of the serious Professor, and hence also the weighty words
and grave statements which fell from the careless student. It was an
unprecedented event, yet no one knew of it, least of all those whom it
concerned.

The body of the Professor, feeling conscious suddenly of a great
dryness about the back of the throat, sallied out into the street, still
chuckling to himself over the result of the experiment, for the soul of
Fritz within was reckless at the thought of the bride whom he had won so
easily. His first impulse was to go up to the house and see her, but on
second thoughts he came to the conclusion that it would be best to stay
away until Madame Baumgarten should be informed by her husband of the
agreement which had been made. He therefore made his way down to the
Grüner Mann, which was one of the favourite trysting-places of the
wilder students, and ran, boisterously waving his cane in the air, into
the little parlour, where sat Spiegler and Muller and half a dozen other
boon companions.

"Ha, ha! my boys," he shouted. "I knew I should find you here. Drink
up, every one of you, and call for what you like, for I'm going to stand
treat to-day."

Had the green man who is depicted upon the signpost of that well-known
inn suddenly marched into the room and called for a bottle of wine,
the students could not have been more amazed than they were by this
unexpected entry of their revered professor. They were so astonished
that for a minute or two they glared at him in utter bewilderment
without being able to make any reply to his hearty invitation.

"Donner und Blitzen!" shouted the Professor angrily. "What the deuce
is the matter with you, then? You sit there like a set of stuck pigs
staring at me. What is it, then?"

"It is the unexpected honour," stammered Spiegel, who was in the chair.

"Honour--rubbish!" said the Professor testily. "Do you think that just
because I happen to have been exhibiting mesmerism to a parcel of old
fossils, I am therefore too proud to associate with dear old friends
like you? Come out of that chair, Spiegel my boy, for I shall preside
now. Beer, or wine, or shnapps, my lads--call for what you like, and put
it all down to me."

Never was there such an afternoon in the Grüner Mann. The foaming
flagons of lager and the green-necked bottles of Rhenish circulated
merrily. By degrees the students lost their shyness in the presence of
their Professor. As for him, he shouted, he sang, he roared, he balanced
a long tobacco-pipe upon his nose, and offered to run a hundred yards
against any member of the company. The Kellner and the barmaid whispered
to each other outside the door their astonishment at such proceedings on
the part of a Regius Professor of the ancient university of Kleinplatz.
They had still more to whisper about afterwards, for the learned man
cracked the Kellner's crown, and kissed the barmaid behind the kitchen
door.

"Gentlemen," said the Professor, standing up, albeit somewhat
totteringly, at the end of the table, and balancing his high
old-fashioned wine glass in his bony hand, "I must now explain to you
what is the cause of this festivity."

"Hear! hear!" roared the students, hammering their beer glasses against
the table; "a speech, a speech!--silence for a speech!"

"The fact is, my friends," said the Professor, beaming through his
spectacles, "I hope very soon to be married."

"Married!" cried a student, bolder than the others "Is Madame dead,
then?"

"Madame who?"

"Why, Madame von Baumgarten, of course."

"Ha, ha!" laughed the Professor; "I can see, then, that you know all
about my former difficulties. No, she is not dead, but I have reason to
believe that she will not oppose my marriage."

"That is very accommodating of her," remarked one of the company.

"In fact," said the Professor, "I hope that she will now be induced to
aid me in getting a wife. She and I never took to each other very much;
but now I hope all that may be ended, and when I marry she will come and
stay with me."

"What a happy family!" exclaimed some wag.

"Yes, indeed; and I hope you will come to my wedding, all of you. I
won't mention names, but here is to my little bride!" and the Professor
waved his glass in the air.

"Here's to his little bride!" roared the roysterers, with shouts of
laughter. "Here's her health. Sie soll leben--Hoch!" And so the fun
waxed still more fast and furious, while each young fellow followed the
Professor's example, and drank a toast to the girl of his heart.

While all this festivity had been going on at the Grüner Mann, a very
different scene had been enacted elsewhere. Young Fritz von Hartmann,
with a solemn face and a reserved manner, had, after the experiment,
consulted and adjusted some mathematical instruments; after which,
with a few peremptory words to the janitors, he had walked out into the
street and wended his way slowly in the direction of the house of the
Professor. As he walked he saw Von Althaus, the professor of anatomy, in
front of him, and quickening his pace he overtook him.

"I say, Von Althaus," he exclaimed, tapping him on the sleeve, "you were
asking me for some information the other day concerning the middle coat
of the cerebral arteries. Now I find----"

"Donnerwetter!" shouted Von Althaus, who was a peppery old fellow. "What
the deuce do you mean by your impertinence! I'll have you up before the
Academical Senate for this, sir;" with which threat he turned on
his heel and hurried away. Von Hartmann was much surprised at this
reception. "It's on account of this failure of my experiment," he said
to himself, and continued moodily on his way.

Fresh surprises were in store for him, however. He was hurrying along
when he was overtaken by two students. These youths, instead of raising
their caps or showing any other sign of respect, gave a wild whoop of
delight the instant that they saw him, and rushing at him, seized him
by each arm and commenced dragging him along with them.

"Gott in himmel!" roared Von Hartmann. "What is the meaning of this
unparalleled insult? Where are you taking me?"

"To crack a bottle of wine with us," said the two students. "Come along!
That is an invitation which you have never refused."

"I never heard of such insolence in my life!" cried Von Hartmann. "Let
go my arms! I shall certainly have you rusticated for this. Let me go, I
say!" and he kicked furiously at his captors.

"Oh, if you choose to turn ill-tempered, you may go where you like," the
students said, releasing him. "We can do very well without you."

"I know you. I'll pay you out," said Von Hartmann furiously, and
continued in the direction which he imagined to be his own home, much
incensed at the two episodes which had occurred to him on the way.

Now, Madame von Baumgarten, who was looking out of the window and
wondering why her husband was late for dinner, was considerably
astonished to see the young student come stalking down the road. As
already remarked, she had a great antipathy to him, and if ever he
ventured into the house it was on sufferance, and under the protection
of the Professor. Still more astonished was she, therefore, when she
beheld him undo the wicket-gate and stride up the garden path with the
air of one who is master of the situation.

She could hardly believe her eyes, and hastened to the door with all her
maternal instincts up in arms. From the upper windows the fair Elise had
also observed this daring move upon the part of her lover, and her heart
beat quick with mingled pride and consternation.

"Good day, sir," Madame Baumgarten remarked to the intruder, as she
stood in gloomy majesty in the open doorway.

"A very fine day indeed, Martha," returned the other. "Now, don't stand
there like a statue of Juno, but bustle about and get the dinner ready,
for I am well-nigh starved."

"Martha! Dinner!" ejaculated the lady, falling back in astonishment.

"Yes, dinner, Martha, dinner!" howled Von Hartmann, who was becoming
irritable. "Is there anything wonderful in that request when a man
has been out all day? I'll wait in the dining-room. Anything will do.
Schinken, and sausage, and prunes--any little thing that happens to be
about. There you are, standing staring again. Woman, will you or will
you not stir your legs?"

This last address, delivered with a perfect shriek of rage, had the
effect of sending good Madame Baumgarten flying along the passage and
through the kitchen, where she locked herself up in the scullery and
went into violent hysterics. In the meantime Von Hartmann strode into
the room and threw himself down upon the sofa in the worst of tempers.

"Elise!" he shouted. "Confound the girl! Elise!"

Thus roughly summoned, the young lady came timidly downstairs and into
the presence of her lover. "Dearest!" she cried, throwing her arms round
him, "I know this is all done for my sake! It is a RUSE in order to see
me."

Von Hartmann's indignation at this fresh attack upon him was so great
that he became speechless for a minute from rage, and could only glare
and shake his fists, while he struggled in her embrace. When he at last
regained his utterance, he indulged in such a bellow of passion that the
young lady dropped back, petrified with fear, into an armchair.

"Never have I passed such a day in my life," Von Hartmann cried,
stamping upon the floor. "My experiment has failed. Von Althaus has
insulted me. Two students have dragged me along the public road. My wife
nearly faints when I ask her for dinner, and my daughter flies at me and
hugs me like a grizzly bear."

"You are ill, dear," the young lady cried. "Your mind is wandering. You
have not even kissed me once."

"No, and I don't intend to either," Von Hartmann said with decision.
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Why don't you go and fetch my
slippers, and help your mother to dish the dinner?"

"And is it for this," Elise cried, burying her face in her
handkerchief--"is it for this that I have loved you passionately for
upwards of ten months? Is it for this that I have braved my mother's
wrath? Oh, you have broken my heart; I am sure you have!" and she sobbed
hysterically.

"I can't stand much more of this," roared Von Hartmann furiously.
"What the deuce does the girl mean? What did I do ten months ago which
inspired you with such a particular affection for me? If you are really
so very fond, you would do better to run away down and find the schinken
and some bread, instead of talking all this nonsense."

"Oh, my darling!" cried the unhappy maiden, throwing herself into the
arms of what she imagined to be her lover, "you do but joke in order to
frighten your little Elise."

Now it chanced that at the moment of this unexpected embrace Von
Hartmann was still leaning back against the end of the sofa, which,
like much German furniture, was in a somewhat rickety condition. It also
chanced that beneath this end of the sofa there stood a tank full of
water in which the physiologist was conducting certain experiments
upon the ova of fish, and which he kept in his drawing-room in order
to insure an equable temperature. The additional weight of the maiden,
combined with the impetus with which she hurled herself upon him, caused
the precarious piece of furniture to give way, and the body of the
unfortunate student was hurled backwards into the tank, in which his
head and shoulders were firmly wedged, while his lower extremities
flapped helplessly about in the air. This was the last straw.
Extricating himself with some difficulty from his unpleasant position,
Von Hartmann gave an inarticulate yell of fury, and dashing out of the
room, in spite of the entreaties of Elise, he seized his hat and rushed
off into the town, all dripping and dishevelled, with the intention
of seeking in some inn the food and comfort which he could not find at
home.

As the spirit of Von Baumgarten encased in the body of Von Hartmann
strode down the winding pathway which led down to the little town,
brooding angrily over his many wrongs, he became aware that an elderly
man was approaching him who appeared to be in an advanced state of
intoxication. Von Hartmann waited by the side of the road and watched
this individual, who came stumbling along, reeling from one side of
the road to the other, and singing a student song in a very husky and
drunken voice. At first his interest was merely excited by the fact
of seeing a man of so venerable an appearance in such a disgraceful
condition, but as he approached nearer, he became convinced that he knew
the other well, though he could not recall when or where he had met him.
This impression became so strong with him, that when the stranger came
abreast of him he stepped in front of him and took a good look at his
features.

"Well, sonny," said the drunken man, surveying Von Hartmann and swaying
about in front of him, "where the Henker have I seen you before? I know
you as well as I know myself. Who the deuce are you?"

"I am Professor von Baumgarten," said the student. "May I ask who you
are? I am strangely familiar with your features."

"You should never tell lies, young man," said the other. "You're
certainly not the Professor, for he is an ugly snuffy old chap, and you
are a big broad-shouldered young fellow. As to myself, I am Fritz von
Hartmann at your service."

"That you certainly are not," exclaimed the body of Von Hartmann. "You
might very well be his father. But hullo, sir, are you aware that you
are wearing my studs and my watch-chain?"

"Donnerwetter!" hiccoughed the other. "If those are not the trousers for
which my tailor is about to sue me, may I never taste beer again."

Now as Von Hartmann, overwhelmed by the many strange things which had
occurred to him that day, passed his hand over his forehead and cast his
eyes downwards, he chanced to catch the reflection of his own face in a
pool which the rain had left upon the road. To his utter astonishment he
perceived that his face was that of a youth, that his dress was that of
a fashionable young student, and that in every way he was the antithesis
of the grave and scholarly figure in which his mind was wont to dwell.
In an instant his active brain ran over the series of events which had
occurred and sprang to the conclusion. He fairly reeled under the blow.

"Himmel!" he cried, "I see it all. Our souls are in the wrong bodies.
I am you and you are I. My theory is proved--but at what an expense!
Is the most scholarly mind in Europe to go about with this frivolous
exterior? Oh the labours of a lifetime are ruined!" and he smote his
breast in his despair.

"I say," remarked the real Von Hartmann from the body of the Professor,
"I quite see the force of your remarks, but don't go knocking my body
about like that. You received it in excellent condition, but I perceive
that you have wet it and bruised it, and spilled snuff over my ruffled
shirt-front."

"It matters little," the other said moodily. "Such as we are so must we
stay. My theory is triumphantly proved, but the cost is terrible."

"If I thought so," said the spirit of the student, "it would be hard
indeed. What could I do with these stiff old limbs, and how could I woo
Elise and persuade her that I was not her father? No, thank Heaven, in
spite of the beer which has upset me more than ever it could upset my
real self, I can see a way out of it."

"How?" gasped the Professor.

"Why, by repeating the experiment. Liberate our souls once more, and
the chances are that they will find their way back into their respective
bodies."

No drowning man could clutch more eagerly at a straw than did Von
Baumgarten's spirit at this suggestion. In feverish haste he dragged his
own frame to the side of the road and threw it into a mesmeric trance;
he then extracted the crystal ball from the pocket, and managed to bring
himself into the same condition.

Some students and peasants who chanced to pass during the next hour
were much astonished to see the worthy Professor of Physiology and
his favourite student both sitting upon a very muddy bank and both
completely insensible. Before the hour was up quite a crowd had
assembled, and they were discussing the advisability of sending for an
ambulance to convey the pair to hospital, when the learned savant opened
his eyes and gazed vacantly around him. For an instant he seemed to
forget how he had come there, but next moment he astonished his audience
by waving his skinny arms above his head and crying out in a voice of
rapture, "Gott sei gedanket! I am myself again. I feel I am!" Nor was
the amazement lessened when the student, springing to his feet, burst
into the same cry, and the two performed a sort of pas de joie in the
middle of the road.

For some time after that people had some suspicion of the sanity of both
the actors in this strange episode. When the Professor published his
experiences in the Medicalschrift as he had promised, he was met by an
intimation, even from his colleagues, that he would do well to have
his mind cared for, and that another such publication would certainly
consign him to a madhouse. The student also found by experience that it
was wisest to be silent about the matter.

When the worthy lecturer returned home that night he did not receive
the cordial welcome which he might have looked for after his strange
adventures. On the contrary, he was roundly upbraided by both his female
relatives for smelling of drink and tobacco, and also for being absent
while a young scapegrace invaded the house and insulted its occupants.
It was long before the domestic atmosphere of the lecturer's house
resumed its normal quiet, and longer still before the genial face of
Von Hartmann was seen beneath its roof. Perseverance, however, conquers
every obstacle, and the student eventually succeeded in pacifying the
enraged ladies and in establishing himself upon the old footing. He
has now no longer any cause to fear the enmity of Madame, for he is
Hauptmann von Hartmann of the Emperor's own Uhlans, and his loving wife
Elise has already presented him with two little Uhlans as a visible sign
and token of her affection.




THE MAN FROM ARCHANGEL.


On the fourth day of March, in the year 1867, being at that time in
my five-and-twentieth year, I wrote down the following words in my
note-book--the result of much mental perturbation and conflict:--

"The solar system, amidst a countless number of other systems as large
as itself, rolls ever silently through space in the direction of the
constellation of Hercules. The great spheres of which it is composed
spin and spin through the eternal void ceaselessly and noiselessly. Of
these one of the smallest and most insignificant is that conglomeration
of solid and of liquid particles which we have named the earth. It
whirls onwards now as it has done before my birth, and will do after my
death--a revolving mystery, coming none know whence, and going none know
whither. Upon the outer crust of this moving mass crawl many mites,
of whom I, John M'Vittie, am one, helpless, impotent, being dragged
aimlessly through space. Yet such is the state of things amongst us that
the little energy and glimmering of reason which I possess is entirely
taken up with the labours which are necessary in order to procure
certain metallic disks, wherewith I may purchase the chemical elements
necessary to build up my ever-wasting tissues, and keep a roof over me
to shelter me from the inclemency of the weather. I thus have no thought
to expend upon the vital questions which surround me on every side.
Yet, miserable entity as I am, I can still at times feel some degree of
happiness, and am even--save the mark!--puffed up occasionally with a
sense of my own importance."

These words, as I have said, I wrote down in my note-book, and they
reflected accurately the thoughts which I found rooted far down in my
soul, ever present and unaffected by the passing emotions of the hour.
At last, however, came a time when my uncle, M'Vittie of Glencairn,
died--the same who was at one time chairman of committees of the House
of Commons. He divided his great wealth among his many nephews, and I
found myself with sufficient to provide amply for my wants during the
remainder of my life, and became at the same time owner of a bleak tract
of land upon the coast of Caithness, which I think the old man must have
bestowed upon me in derision, for it was sandy and valueless, and he had
ever a grim sense of humour. Up to this time I had been an attorney in
a midland town in England. Now I saw that I could put my thoughts into
effect, and, leaving all petty and sordid aims, could elevate my mind
by the study of the secrets of nature. My departure from my English home
was somewhat accelerated by the fact that I had nearly slain a man in
a quarrel, for my temper was fiery, and I was apt to forget my own
strength when enraged. There was no legal action taken in the matter,
but the papers yelped at me, and folk looked askance when I met them.
It ended by my cursing them and their vile, smoke-polluted town, and
hurrying to my northern possession, where I might at last find peace and
an opportunity for solitary study and contemplation. I borrowed from
my capital before I went, and so was able to take with me a choice
collection of the most modern philosophical instruments and books,
together with chemicals and such other things as I might need in my
retirement.

The land which I had inherited was a narrow strip, consisting mostly of
sand, and extending for rather over two miles round the coast of Mansie
Bay, in Caithness. Upon this strip there had been a rambling, grey-stone
building--when erected or wherefore none could tell me--and this I had
repaired, so that it made a dwelling quite good enough for one of my
simple tastes. One room was my laboratory, another my sitting-room, and
in a third, just under the sloping roof, I slung the hammock in which
I always slept. There were three other rooms, but I left them vacant,
except one which was given over to the old crone who kept house for me.
Save the Youngs and the M'Leods, who were fisher-folk living round at
the other side of Fergus Ness, there were no other people for many miles
in each direction. In front of the house was the great bay, behind it
were two long barren hills, capped by other loftier ones beyond. There
was a glen between the hills, and when the wind was from the land it
used to sweep down this with a melancholy sough and whisper among the
branches of the fir-trees beneath my attic window.

I dislike my fellow-mortals. Justice compels me to add that they appear
for the most part to dislike me. I hate their little crawling ways,
their conventionalities, their deceits, their narrow rights and wrongs.
They take offence at my brusque outspokenness, my disregard for their
social laws, my impatience of all constraint. Among my books and my
drugs in my lonely den at Mansie I could let the great drove of
the human race pass onwards with their politics and inventions and
tittle-tattle, and I remained behind stagnant and happy. Not stagnant
either, for I was working in my own little groove, and making progress.
I have reason to believe that Dalton's atomic theory is founded upon
error, and I know that mercury is not an element.

During the day I was busy with my distillations and analyses. Often I
forgot my meals, and when old Madge summoned me to my tea I found my
dinner lying untouched upon the table. At night I read Bacon, Descartes,
Spinoza, Kant--all those who have pried into what is unknowable.
They are all fruitless and empty, barren of result, but prodigal of
polysyllables, reminding me of men who, while digging for gold, have
turned up many worms, and then exhibit them exultantly as being what
they sought. At times a restless spirit would come upon me, and I would
walk thirty and forty miles without rest or breaking fast. On these
occasions, when I used to stalk through the country villages, gaunt,
unshaven, and dishevelled, the mothers would rush into the road and
drag their children indoors, and the rustics would swarm out of their
pot-houses to gaze at me. I believe that I was known far and wide as the
"mad laird o' Mansie." It was rarely, however, that I made these raids
into the country, for I usually took my exercise upon my own beach,
where I soothed my spirit with strong black tobacco, and made the ocean
my friend and my confidant.

What companion is there like the great restless, throbbing sea? What
human mood is there which it does not match and sympathise with? There
are none so gay but that they may feel gayer when they listen to its
merry turmoil, and see the long green surges racing in, with the glint
of the sunbeams in their sparkling crests. But when the grey waves toss
their heads in anger, and the wind screams above them, goading them on
to madder and more tumultuous efforts, then the darkest-minded of men
feels that there is a melancholy principle in Nature which is as gloomy
as his own thoughts. When it was calm in the Bay of Mansie the surface
would be as clear and bright as a sheet of silver, broken only at one
spot some little way from the shore, where a long black line projected
out of the water looking like the jagged back of some sleeping monster.
This was the top of the dangerous ridge of rocks known to the fishermen
as the "ragged reef o' Mansie." When the wind blew from the east the
waves would break upon it like thunder, and the spray would be tossed
far over my house and up to the hills behind. The bay itself was a bold
and noble one, but too much exposed to the northern and eastern gales,
and too much dreaded for its reef, to be much used by mariners. There
was something of romance about this lonely spot. I have lain in my boat
upon a calm day, and peering over the edge I have seen far down the
flickering, ghostly forms of great fish--fish, as it seemed to me, such
as naturalist never knew, and which my imagination transformed into the
genii of that desolate bay. Once, as I stood by the brink of the waters
upon a quiet night, a great cry, as of a woman in hopeless grief, rose
from the bosom of the deep, and swelled out upon the still air, now
sinking and now rising, for a space of thirty seconds. This I heard with
my own ears.

In this strange spot, with the eternal hills behind me and the eternal
sea in front, I worked and brooded for more than two years unpestered
by my fellow men. By degrees I had trained my old servant into habits of
silence, so that she now rarely opened her lips, though I doubt not that
when twice a year she visited her relations in Wick, her tongue during
those few days made up for its enforced rest. I had come almost to
forget that I was a member of the human family, and to live entirely
with the dead whose books I pored over, when a sudden incident occurred
which threw all my thoughts into a new channel.

Three rough days in June had been succeeded by one calm and peaceful
one. There was not a breath of air that evening. The sun sank down in
the west behind a line of purple clouds, and the smooth surface of the
bay was gashed with scarlet streaks. Along the beach the pools left by
the tide showed up like gouts of blood against the yellow sand, as if
some wounded giant had toilfully passed that way, and had left these
red traces of his grievous hurt behind him. As the darkness closed
in, certain ragged clouds which had lain low on the eastern horizon
coalesced and formed a great irregular cumulus. The glass was still low,
and I knew that there was mischief brewing. About nine o'clock a
dull moaning sound came up from the sea, as from a creature who, much
harassed, learns that the hour of suffering has come round again. At ten
a sharp breeze sprang up from the eastward. At eleven it had increased
to a gale, and by midnight the most furious storm was raging which I
ever remember upon that weather-beaten coast.

As I went to bed the shingle and seaweed were pattering up against my
attic window, and the wind was screaming as though every gust were a
lost soul. By that time the sounds of the tempest had become a lullaby
to me. I knew that the grey walls of the old house would buffet it out,
and for what occurred in the world outside I had small concern. Old
Madge was usually as callous to such things as I was myself. It was
a surprise to me when, about three in the morning, I was awoke by the
sound of a great knocking at my door and excited cries in the wheezy
voice of my house-keeper. I sprang out of my hammock, and roughly
demanded of her what was the matter.

"Eh, maister, maister!" she screamed in her hateful dialect. "Come doun,
mun; come doun! There's a muckle ship gaun ashore on the reef, and the
puir folks are a' yammerin' and ca'in' for help--and I doobt they'll a'
be drooned. Oh, Maister M'Vittie, come doun!"

"Hold your tongue, you hag!" I shouted back in a passion. "What is it to
you whether they are drowned or not? Get back to your bed and leave me
alone." I turned in again and drew the blankets over me. "Those men out
there," I said to myself, "have already gone through half the horrors of
death. If they be saved they will but have to go through the same once
more in the space of a few brief years. It is best therefore that they
should pass away now, since they have suffered that anticipation which
is more than the pain of dissolution." With this thought in my mind I
endeavoured to compose myself to sleep once more, for that philosophy
which had taught me to consider death as a small and trivial incident
in man's eternal and everchanging career, had also broken me of much
curiosity concerning worldly matters. On this occasion I found, however,
that the old leaven still fermented strongly in my soul. I tossed from
side to side for some minutes endeavouring to beat down the impulses of
the moment by the rules of conduct which I had framed during months of
thought. Then I heard a dull roar amid the wild shriek of the gale,
and I knew that it was the sound of a signal-gun. Driven by an
uncontrollable impulse, I rose, dressed, and having lit my pipe, walked
out on to the beach.

It was pitch dark when I came outside, and the wind blew with such
violence that I had to put my shoulder against it and push my way along
the shingle. My face pringled and smarted with the sting of the gravel
which was blown against it, and the red ashes of my pipe streamed away
behind me, dancing fantastically through the darkness. I went down to
where the great waves were thundering in, and shading my eyes with
my hands to keep off the salt spray, I peered out to sea. I could
distinguish nothing, and yet it seemed to me that shouts and great
inarticulate cries were borne to me by the blasts. Suddenly as I gazed I
made out the glint of a light, and then the whole bay and the beach were
lit up in a moment by a vivid blue glare. They were burning a 
signal-light on board of the vessel. There she lay on her beam ends
right in the centre of the jagged reef, hurled over to such an
angle that I could see all the planking of her deck. She was a large
two-masted schooner, of foreign rig, and lay perhaps a hundred and
eighty or two hundred yards from the shore. Every spar and rope and
writhing piece of cordage showed up hard and clear under the livid
light which sputtered and flickered from the highest portion of the
forecastle. Beyond the doomed ship out of the great darkness came the
long rolling lines of black waves, never ending, never tiring, with
a petulant tuft of foam here and there upon their crests. Each as it
reached the broad circle of unnatural light appeared to gather strength
and volume, and to hurry on more impetuously until, with a roar and
a jarring crash, it sprang upon its victim. Clinging to the weather
shrouds I could distinctly see some ten or twelve frightened seamen,
who, when their light revealed my presence, turned their white faces
towards me and waved their hands imploringly. I felt my gorge rise
against these poor cowering worms. Why should they presume to shirk the
narrow pathway along which all that is great and noble among mankind has
travelled? There was one there who interested me more than they. He was
a tall man, who stood apart from the others, balancing himself upon the
swaying wreck as though he disdained to cling to rope or bulwark.
His hands were clasped behind his back and his head was sunk upon his
breast, but even in that despondent attitude there was a litheness
and decision in his pose and in every motion which marked him as a man
little likely to yield to despair. Indeed, I could see by his occasional
rapid glances up and down and all around him that he was weighing every
chance of safety, but though he often gazed across the raging surf to
where he could see my dark figure upon the beach, his self-respect or
some other reason forbade him from imploring my help in any way. He
stood, dark, silent, and inscrutable, looking down on the black sea, and
waiting for whatever fortune Fate might send him.

It seemed to me that that problem would very soon be settled. As I
looked, an enormous billow, topping all the others, and coming after
them, like a driver following a flock, swept over the vessel. Her
foremast snapped short off, and the men who clung to the shrouds were
brushed away like a swarm of flies. With a rending, riving sound the
ship began to split in two, where the sharp back of the Mansie reef was
sawing into her keel. The solitary man upon the forecastle ran rapidly
across the deck and seized hold of a white bundle which I had already
observed but failed to make out. As he lifted it up the light fell upon
it, and I saw that the object was a woman, with a spar lashed across her
body and under her arms in such a way that her head should always rise
above water. He bore her tenderly to the side and seemed to speak for a
minute or so to her, as though explaining the impossibility of remaining
upon the ship. Her answer was a singular one. I saw her deliberately
raise her hand and strike him across the face with it. He appeared to
be silenced for a moment or so by this, but he addressed her again,
directing her, as far as I could gather from his motions, how she should
behave when in the water. She shrank away from him, but he caught her in
his arms. He stooped over her for a moment and seemed to press his lips
against her forehead. Then a great wave came welling up against the side
of the breaking vessel, and leaning over he placed her upon the summit
of it as gently as a child might be committed to its cradle. I saw her
white dress flickering among the foam on the crest of the dark billow,
and then the light sank gradually lower, and the riven ship and its
lonely occupant were hidden from my eyes.

As I watched those things my manhood overcame my philosophy, and I felt
a frantic impulse to be up and doing. I threw my cynicism to one side as
a garment which I might don again at leisure, and I rushed wildly to my
boat and my sculls. She was a leaky tub, but what then? Was I, who had
cast many a wistful, doubtful glance at my opium bottle, to begin now to
weigh chances and to cavil at danger. I dragged her down to the sea with
the strength of a maniac and sprang in. For a moment or two it was a
question whether she could live among the boiling surge, but a dozen
frantic strokes took me through it, half full of water but still afloat.
I was out on the unbroken waves now, at one time climbing, climbing
up the broad black breast of one, then sinking down, down on the other
side, until looking up I could see the gleam of the foam all around me
against the dark heavens. Far behind me I could hear the wild wailings
of old Madge, who, seeing me start, thought no doubt that my madness had
come to a climax. As I rowed I peered over my shoulder, until at last on
the belly of a great wave which was sweeping towards me I distinguished
the vague white outline of the woman. Stooping over, I seized her as she
swept by me, and with an effort lifted her, all sodden with water, into
the boat. There was no need to row back, for the next billow carried us
in and threw us upon the beach. I dragged the boat out of danger, and
then lifting up the woman I carried her to the house, followed by my
housekeeper, loud with congratulation and praise.

Now that I had done this thing a reaction set in upon me. I felt that
my burden lived, for I heard the faint beat of her heart as I pressed
my ear against her side in carrying her. Knowing this, I threw her down
beside the fire which Madge had lit, with as little sympathy as though
she had been a bundle of fagots. I never glanced at her to see if she
were fair or no. For many years I had cared little for the face of a
woman. As I lay in my hammock upstairs, however, I heard the old woman
as she chafed the warmth back into her, crooning a chorus of, "Eh, the
puir lassie! Eh, the bonnie lassie!" from which I gathered that this
piece of jetsam was both young and comely.


The morning after the gale was peaceful and sunny. As I walked along the
long sweep of sand I could hear the panting of the sea. It was heaving
and swirling about the reef, but along the shore it rippled in gently
enough. There was no sign of the schooner, nor was there any wreckage
upon the beach, which did not surprise me, as I knew there was a great
undertow in those waters. A couple of broad-winged gulls were hovering
and skimming over the scene of the shipwreck, as though many strange
things were visible to them beneath the waves. At times I could hear
their raucous voices as they spoke to one another of what they saw.

When I came back from my walk the woman was waiting at the door for me.
I began to wish when I saw her that I had never saved her, for here was
an end of my privacy. She was very young--at the most nineteen, with a
pale somewhat refined face, yellow hair, merry blue eyes, and shining
teeth. Her beauty was of an ethereal type. She looked so white and light
and fragile that she might have been the spirit of that storm-foam from
out of which I plucked her. She had wreathed some of Madge's garments
round her in a way which was quaint and not unbecoming. As I strode
heavily up the pathway, she put out her hands with a pretty child-like
gesture, and ran down towards me, meaning, as I surmise, to thank me for
having saved her, but I put her aside with a wave of my hand and passed
her. At this she seemed somewhat hurt, and the tears sprang into
her eyes, but she followed me into the sitting-room and watched me
wistfully. "What country do you come from?" I asked her suddenly.

She smiled when I spoke, but shook her head.

"Francais?" I asked. "Deutsch?" "Espagnol?"--each time she shook her
head, and then she rippled off into a long statement in some tongue of
which I could not understand one word.

After breakfast was over, however, I got a clue to her nationality.

Passing along the beach once more, I saw that in a cleft of the ridge a
piece of wood had been jammed. I rowed out to it in my boat, and brought
it ashore. It was part of the sternpost of a boat, and on it, or rather
on the piece of wood attached to it, was the word "Archangel," painted
in strange, quaint lettering.

"So," I thought, as I paddled slowly back, "this pale damsel is a
Russian. A fit subject for the White Czar and a proper dweller on
the shores of the White Sea!" It seemed to me strange that one of her
apparent refinement should perform so long a journey in so frail
a craft. When I came back into the house, I pronounced the word
"Archangel" several times in different intonations, but she did not
appear to recognise it.

I shut myself up in the laboratory all the morning, continuing a
research which I was making upon the nature of the allotropic forms of
carbon and of sulphur. When I came out at mid-day for some food she was
sitting by the table with a needle and thread, mending some rents in her
clothes, which were now dry. I resented her continued presence, but I
could not turn her out on the beach to shift for herself. Presently she
presented a new phase of her character. Pointing to herself and then
to the scene of the shipwreck, she held up one finger, by which I
understood her to be asking whether she was the only one saved. I nodded
my head to indicate that she was. On this she sprang out of the chair
with a cry of great joy, and holding the garment which she was mending
over her head, and swaying it from side to side with the motion of her
body, she danced as lightly as a feather all round the room, and then
out through the open door into the sunshine. As she whirled round
she sang in a plaintive shrill voice some uncouth barbarous chant,
expressive of exultation. I called out to her, "Come in, you young
fiend, come in and be silent!" but she went on with her dance. Then she
suddenly ran towards me, and catching my hand before I could pluck
it away, she kissed it. While we were at dinner she spied one of my
pencils, and taking it up she wrote the two words "Sophie Ramusine" upon
a piece of paper, and then pointed to herself as a sign that that was
her name. She handed the pencil to me, evidently expecting that I would
be equally communicative, but I put it in my pocket as a sign that I
wished to hold no intercourse with her.

Every moment of my life now I regretted the unguarded precipitancy with
which I had saved this woman. What was it to me whether she had lived
or died? I was no young, hot-headed youth to do such things. It was bad
enough to be compelled to have Madge in the house, but she was old
and ugly, and could be ignored. This one was young and lively, and so
fashioned as to divert attention from graver things. Where could I send
her, and what could I do with her? If I sent information to Wick it
would mean that officials and others would come to me and pry, and peep,
and chatter--a hateful thought. It was better to endure her presence
than that.

I soon found that there were fresh troubles in store for me. There is no
place safe from the swarming, restless race of which I am a member. In
the evening, when the sun was dipping down behind the hills, casting
them into dark shadow, but gilding the sands and casting a great glory
over the sea, I went, as is my custom, for a stroll along the beach.
Sometimes on these occasions I took my book with me. I did so on this
night, and stretching myself upon a sand-dune I composed myself to read.
As I lay there I suddenly became aware of a shadow which interposed
itself between the sun and myself. Looking round, I saw to my great
surprise a very tall, powerful man, who was standing a few yards off,
and who, instead of looking at me, was ignoring my existence completely,
and was gazing over my head with a stern set face at the bay and the
black line of the Mansie reef. His complexion was dark, with black hair,
and short, curling beard, a hawk-like nose, and golden earrings in his
ears--the general effect being wild and somewhat noble. He wore a
faded velveteen jacket, a red-flannel shirt, and high sea boots, coming
half-way up his thighs. I recognised him at a glance as being the same
man who had been left on the wreck the night before.

"Hullo!" I said, in an aggrieved voice. "You got ashore all right,
then?"

"Yes," he answered, in good English. "It was no doing of mine. The waves
threw me up. I wish to God I had been allowed to drown!"

There was a slight foreign lisp in his accent which was rather pleasing.
"Two good fishermen, who live round yonder point, pulled me out and
cared for me; yet I could not honestly thank them for it."

"Ho! ho!" thought I, "here is a man of my own kidney. Why do you wish to
be drowned?" I asked.

"Because," he cried, throwing out his long arms with a passionate,
despairing gesture, "there--there in that blue smiling bay, lies my
soul, my treasure--everything that I loved and lived for."

"Well, well," I said. "People are ruined every day, but there's no use
making a fuss about it. Let me inform you that this ground on which
you walk is my ground, and that the sooner you take yourself off it the
better pleased I shall be. One of you is quite trouble enough."

"One of us?" he gasped.

"Yes--if you could take her off with you I should be still more
grateful."

He gazed at me for a moment as if hardly able to realise what I said,
and then with a wild cry he ran away from me with prodigious speed and
raced along the sands towards my house. Never before or since have
I seen a human being run so fast. I followed as rapidly as I could,
furious at this threatened invasion, but long before I reached the house
he had disappeared through the open door. I heard a great scream
from the inside, and as I came nearer the sound of a man's bass voice
speaking rapidly and loudly. When I looked in the girl, Sophie Ramusine,
was crouching in a corner, cowering away, with fear and loathing
expressed on her averted face and in every line of her shrinking form.
The other, with his dark eyes flashing, and his outstretched hands
quivering with emotion, was pouring forth a torrent of passionate
pleading words. He made a step forward to her as I entered, but she
writhed still further away, and uttered a sharp cry like that of a
rabbit when the weasel has him by the throat.

"Here!" I said, pulling him back from her. "This is a pretty to-do!
What do you mean? Do you think this is a wayside inn or place of public
accommodation?"

"Oh, sir," he said, "excuse me. This woman is my wife, and I feared that
she was drowned. You have brought me back to life."

"Who are you?" I asked roughly.

"I am a man from Archangel," he said simply; "a Russian man."

"What is your name?"

"Ourganeff."

"Ourganeff!--and hers is Sophie Ramusine. She is no wife of yours. She
has no ring."

"We are man and wife in the sight of Heaven," he said solemnly, looking
upwards. "We are bound by higher laws than those of earth." As he spoke
the girl slipped behind me and caught me by the other hand, pressing it
as though beseeching my protection. "Give me up my wife, sir," he went
on. "Let me take her away from here."

"Look here, you--whatever your name is," I said sternly; "I don't want
this wench here. I wish I had never seen her. If she died it would be
no grief to me. But as to handing her over to you, when it is clear she
fears and hates you, I won't do it. So now just clear your great body
out of this, and leave me to my books. I hope I may never look upon your
face again."

"You won't give her up to me?" he said hoarsely.

"I'll see you damned first!" I answered.

"Suppose I take her," he cried, his dark face growing darker.

All my tigerish blood flushed up in a moment. I picked up a billet of
wood from beside the fireplace. "Go," I said, in a low voice; "go quick,
or I may do you an injury." He looked at me irresolutely for a moment,
and then he left the house. He came back again in a moment, however, and
stood in the doorway looking in at us.

"Have a heed what you do," he said. "The woman is mine, and I shall have
her. When it comes to blows, a Russian is as good a man as a Scotchman."

"We shall see that," I cried, springing forward, but he was already
gone, and I could see his tall form moving away through the gathering
darkness.

For a month or more after this things went smoothly with us. I never
spoke to the Russian girl, nor did she ever address me. Sometimes when
I was at work in my laboratory she would slip inside the door and sit
silently there watching me with her great eyes. At first this intrusion
annoyed me, but by degrees, finding that she made no attempt to distract
my attention, I suffered her to remain. Encouraged by this concession,
she gradually came to move the stool on which she sat nearer and nearer
to my table, until after gaining a little every day during some weeks,
she at last worked her way right up to me, and used to perch herself
beside me whenever I worked. In this position she used, still without
ever obtruding her presence in any way, to make herself very useful
by holding my pens, test-tubes, or bottles, and handing me whatever I
wanted, with never-failing sagacity. By ignoring the fact of her being
a human being, and looking upon her as a useful automatic machine,
I accustomed myself to her presence so far as to miss her on the few
occasions when she was not at her post. I have a habit of talking aloud
to myself at times when I work, so as to fix my results better in my
mind. The girl must have had a surprising memory for sounds, for she
could always repeat the words which I let fall in this way, without, of
course, understanding in the least what they meant. I have often been
amused at hearing her discharge a volley of chemical equations and
algebraic symbols at old Madge, and then burst into a ringing laugh when
the crone would shake her head, under the impression, no doubt, that she
was being addressed in Russian.

She never went more than a few yards from the house, and indeed never
put her foot over the threshold without looking carefully out of each
window in order to be sure that there was nobody about. By this I
knew that she suspected that her fellow-countryman was still in the
neighbourhood, and feared that he might attempt to carry her off. She
did something else which was significant. I had an old revolver with
some cartridges, which had been thrown away among the rubbish. She found
this one day, and at once proceeded to clean it and oil it. She hung
it up near the door, with the cartridges in a little bag beside it, and
whenever I went for a walk, she would take it down and insist upon my
carrying it with me. In my absence she would always bolt the door.
Apart from her apprehensions she seemed fairly happy, busying herself
in helping Madge when she was not attending upon me. She was wonderfully
nimble-fingered and natty in all domestic duties.

It was not long before I discovered that her suspicions were well
founded, and that this man from Archangel was still lurking in the
vicinity. Being restless one night I rose and peered out of the window.
The weather was somewhat cloudy, and I could barely make out the line
of the sea, and the loom of my boat upon the beach. As I gazed, however,
and my eyes became accustomed to the obscurity, I became aware that
there was some other dark blur upon the sands, and that in front of
my very door, where certainly there had been nothing of the sort the
preceding night. As I stood at my diamond-paned lattice still peering
and peeping to make out what this might be, a great bank of clouds
rolled slowly away from the face of the moon, and a flood of cold, clear
light was poured down upon the silent bay and the long sweep of its
desolate shores. Then I saw what this was which haunted my doorstep. It
was he, the Russian. He squatted there like a gigantic toad, with his
legs doubled under him in strange Mongolian fashion, and his eyes fixed
apparently upon the window of the room in which the young girl and the
housekeeper slept. The light fell upon his upturned face, and I saw
once more the hawk-like grace of his countenance, with the single
deeply-indented line of care upon his brow, and the protruding beard
which marks the passionate nature. My first impulse was to shoot him
as a trespasser, but, as I gazed, my resentment changed into pity and
contempt. "Poor fool," I said to myself, "is it then possible that you,
whom I have seen looking open-eyed at present death, should have your
whole thoughts and ambition centred upon this wretched slip of a girl--a
girl, too, who flies from you and hates you. Most women would love
you--were it but for that dark face and great handsome body of
yours--and yet you must needs hanker after the one in a thousand who
will have no traffic with you." As I returned to my bed I chuckled much
to myself over this thought. I knew that my bars were strong and my
bolts thick. It mattered little to me whether this strange man spent his
night at my door or a hundred leagues off, so long as he was gone by the
morning. As I expected, when I rose and went out there was no sign of
him, nor had he left any trace of his midnight vigil.

It was not long, however, before I saw him again. I had been out for a
row one morning, for my head was aching, partly from prolonged stooping,
and partly from the effects of a noxious drug which I had inhaled the
night before. I pulled along the coast some miles, and then, feeling
thirsty, I landed at a place where I knew that a fresh water stream
trickled down into the sea. This rivulet passed through my land, but the
mouth of it, where I found myself that day, was beyond my boundary line.
I felt somewhat taken aback when rising from the stream at which I had
slaked my thirst I found myself face to face with the Russian. I was
as much a trespasser now as he was, and I could see at a glance that he
knew it.

"I wish to speak a few words to you," he said gravely.

"Hurry up, then!" I answered, glancing at my watch. "I have no time to
listen to chatter."

"Chatter!" he repeated angrily. "Ah, but there. You Scotch people are
strange men. Your face is hard and your words rough, but so are those
of the good fishermen with whom I stay, yet I find that beneath it all
there lie kind honest natures. No doubt you are kind and good, too, in
spite of your roughness."

"In the name of the devil," I said, "say your say, and go your way.
I am weary of the sight of you."

"Can I not soften you in any way?" he cried. "Ah, see--see here"--he
produced a small Grecian cross from inside his velvet jacket. "Look at
this. Our religions may differ in form, but at least we have some common
thoughts and feelings when we see this emblem."

"I am not so sure of that," I answered.

He looked at me thoughtfully.

"You are a very strange man," he said at last. "I cannot understand you.
You still stand between me and Sophie. It is a dangerous position to
take, sir. Oh, believe me, before it is too late. If you did but know
what I have done to gain that woman--how I have risked my body, how
I have lost my soul! You are a small obstacle to some which I have
surmounted--you, whom a rip with a knife, or a blow from a stone, would
put out of my way for ever. But God preserve me from that," he cried
wildly. "I am deep--too deep--already. Anything rather than that."

"You would do better to go back to your country," I said, "than to skulk
about these sand-hills and disturb my leisure. When I have proof that
you have gone away I shall hand this woman over to the protection of the
Russian Consul at Edinburgh. Until then, I shall guard her myself, and
not you, nor any Muscovite that ever breathed, shall take her from me."

"And what is your object in keeping me from Sophie?" he asked. "Do you
imagine that I would injure her? Why, man, I would give my life freely
to save her from the slightest harm. Why do you do this thing?"

"I do it because it is my good pleasure to act so," I answered. "I give
no man reasons for my conduct."

"Look here!" he cried, suddenly blazing into fury, and advancing towards
me with his shaggy mane bristling and his brown hands clenched. "If I
thought you had one dishonest thought towards this girl--if for a moment
I had reason to believe that you had any base motive for detaining
her--as sure as there is a God in Heaven I should drag the heart out of
your bosom with my hands." The very idea seemed to have put the man in
a frenzy, for his face was all distorted and his hands opened and shut
convulsively. I thought that he was about to spring at my throat.

"Stand off," I said, putting my hand on my pistol. "If you lay a finger
on me I shall kill you."

He put his hand into his pocket, and for a moment I thought he was about
to produce a weapon too, but instead of that he whipped out a cigarette
and lit it, breathing the smoke rapidly into his lungs.

No doubt he had found by experience that this was the most effectual way
of curbing his passions.

"I told you," he said in a quieter voice, "that my name is
Ourganeff--Alexis Ourganeff. I am a Finn by birth, but I have spent my
life in every part of the world. I was one who could never be still, nor
settle down to a quiet existence. After I came to own my own ship there
is hardly a port from Archangel to Australia which I have not entered.
I was rough and wild and free, but there was one at home, sir, who was
prim and white-handed and soft-tongued, skilful in little fancies and
conceits which women love. This youth by his wiles and tricks stole from
me the love of the girl whom I had ever marked as my own, and who up to
that time had seemed in some sort inclined to return my passion. I had
been on a voyage to Hammerfest for ivory, and coming back unexpectedly
I learned that my pride and treasure was to be married to this
soft-skinned boy, and that the party had actually gone to the church.
In such moments, sir, something gives way in my head, and I hardly know
what I do. I landed with a boat's crew--all men who had sailed with me
for years, and who were as true as steel. We went up to the church. They
were standing, she and he, before the priest, but the thing had not been
done. I dashed between them and caught her round the waist. My men beat
back the frightened bridegroom and the lookers on. We bore her down to
the boat and aboard our vessel, and then getting up anchor we sailed
away across the White Sea until the spires of Archangel sank down behind
the horizon. She had my cabin, my room, every comfort. I slept among
the men in the forecastle. I hoped that in time her aversion to me
would wear away, and that she would consent to marry me in England or
in France. For days and days we sailed. We saw the North Cape die away
behind us, and we skirted the grey Norwegian coast, but still, in spite
of every attention, she would not forgive me for tearing her from that
pale-faced lover of hers. Then came this cursed storm which shattered
both my ship and my hopes, and has deprived me even of the sight of the
woman for whom I have risked so much. Perhaps she may learn to love me
yet. You, sir," he said wistfully, "look like one who has seen much of
the world. Do you not think that she may come to forget this man and to
love me?"

"I am tired of your story," I said, turning away. "For my part, I think
you are a great fool. If you imagine that this love of yours will pass
away you had best amuse yourself as best you can until it does. If, on
the other hand, it is a fixed thing, you cannot do better than cut your
throat, for that is the shortest way out of it. I have no more time to
waste on the matter." With this I hurried away and walked down to the
boat. I never looked round, but I heard the dull sound of his feet upon
the sands as he followed me.

"I have told you the beginning of my story," he said, "and you shall
know the end some day. You would do well to let the girl go."

I never answered him, but pushed the boat off. When I had rowed some
distance out I looked back and saw his tall figure upon the yellow
sand as he stood gazing thoughtfully after me. When I looked again some
minutes later he had disappeared.

For a long time after this my life was as regular and as monotonous as
it had been before the shipwreck. At times I hoped that the man from
Archangel had gone away altogether, but certain footsteps which I saw
upon the sand, and more particularly a little pile of cigarette ash
which I found one day behind a hillock from which a view of the house
might be obtained, warned me that, though invisible, he was still in
the vicinity. My relations with the Russian girl remained the same as
before. Old Madge had been somewhat jealous of her presence at first,
and seemed to fear that what little authority she had would be taken
away from her. By degrees, however, as she came to realise my utter
indifference, she became reconciled to the situation, and, as I have
said before, profited by it, as our visitor performed much of the
domestic work.

And now I am coming near the end of this narrative of mine, which I have
written a great deal more for my own amusement than for that of any one
else. The termination of the strange episode in which these two Russians
had played a part was as wild and as sudden as the commencement. The
events of one single night freed me from all my troubles, and left me
once more alone with my books and my studies, as I had been before their
intrusion. Let me endeavour to describe how this came about.

I had had a long day of heavy and wearying work, so that in the evening
I determined upon taking a long walk. When I emerged from the house
my attention was attracted by the appearance of the sea. It lay like a
sheet of glass, so that never a ripple disturbed its surface. Yet
the air was filled with that indescribable moaning sound which I have
alluded to before--a sound as though the spirits of all those who lay
beneath those treacherous waters were sending a sad warning of coming
troubles to their brethren in the flesh. The fishermen's wives along
that coast know the eerie sound, and look anxiously across the waters
for the brown sails making for the land. When I heard it I stepped back
into the house and looked at the glass. It was down below 29 degrees.
Then I knew that a wild night was coming upon us.

Underneath the hills where I walked that evening it was dull and chill,
but their summits were rosy-red, and the sea was brightened by the
sinking sun. There were no clouds of importance in the sky, yet the
dull groaning of the sea grew louder and stronger. I saw, far to the
eastward, a brig beating up for Wick, with a reef in her topsails. It
was evident that her captain had read the signs of nature as I had done.
Behind her a long, lurid haze lay low upon the water, concealing the
horizon. "I had better push on," I thought to myself, "or the wind may
rise before I can get back."

I suppose I must have been at least half a mile from the house when I
suddenly stopped and listened breathlessly. My ears were so accustomed
to the noises of nature, the sighing of the breeze and the sob of the
waves, that any other sound made itself heard at a great distance.
I waited, listening with all my ears. Yes, there it was again--a
long-drawn, shrill cry of despair, ringing over the sands and echoed
back from the hills behind me--a piteous appeal for aid. It came from
the direction of my house. I turned and ran back homewards at the top
of my speed, ploughing through the sand, racing over the shingle. In my
mind there was a great dim perception of what had occurred.

About a quarter of a mile from the house there is a high sand-hill, from
which the whole country round is visible. When I reached the top of this
I paused for a moment. There was the old grey building--there the boat.
Everything seemed to be as I had left it. Even as I gazed, however, the
shrill scream was repeated, louder than before, and the next moment a
tall figure emerged from my door, the figure of the Russian sailor. Over
his shoulder was the white form of the young girl, and even in his haste
he seemed to bear her tenderly and with gentle reverence. I could hear
her wild cries and see her desperate struggles to break away from him.
Behind the couple came my old housekeeper, staunch and true, as the aged
dog, who can no longer bite, still snarls with toothless gums at the
intruder. She staggered feebly along at the heels of the ravisher,
waving her long, thin arms, and hurling, no doubt, volleys of Scotch
curses and imprecations at his head. I saw at a glance that he was
making for the boat. A sudden hope sprang up in my soul that I might be
in time to intercept him. I ran for the beach at the top of my speed. As
I ran I slipped a cartridge into my revolver. This I determined should
be the last of these invasions.

I was too late. By the time I reached the water's edge he was a hundred
yards away, making the boat spring with every stroke of his powerful
arms. I uttered a wild cry of impotent anger, and stamped up and down
the sands like a maniac. He turned and saw me. Rising from his seat
he made me a graceful bow, and waved his hand to me. It was not a
triumphant or a derisive gesture. Even my furious and distempered mind
recognised it as being a solemn and courteous leave-taking. Then he
settled down to his oars once more, and the little skiff shot away out
over the bay. The sun had gone down now, leaving a single dull, red
streak upon the water, which stretched away until it blended with the
purple haze on the horizon. Gradually the skiff grew smaller and smaller
as it sped across this lurid band, until the shades of night gathered
round it and it became a mere blur upon the lonely sea. Then this vague
loom died away also and darkness settled over it--a darkness which
should never more be raised.

And why did I pace the solitary shore, hot and wrathful as a wolf whose
whelp has been torn from it? Was it that I loved this Muscovite girl?
No--a thousand times no. I am not one who, for the sake of a white skin
or a blue eye, would belie my own life, and change the whole tenor of my
thoughts and existence. My heart was untouched. But my pride--ah, there
I had been cruelly wounded.

To think that I had been unable to afford protection to the helpless
one who craved it of me, and who relied on me! It was that which made my
heart sick and sent the blood buzzing through my ears.

That night a great wind rose up from the sea, and the wild waves
shrieked upon the shore as though they would tear it back with them into
the ocean. The turmoil and the uproar were congenial to my vexed spirit.
All night I wandered up and down, wet with spray and rain, watching the
gleam of the white breakers and listening to the outcry of the storm.
My heart was bitter against the Russian. I joined my feeble pipe to the
screaming of the gale. "If he would but come back again!" I cried with
clenched hands; "if he would but come back!"

He came back. When the grey light of morning spread over the eastern
sky, and lit up the great waste of yellow, tossing waters, with the
brown clouds drifting swiftly over them, then I saw him once again. A
few hundred yards off along the sand there lay a long dark object,
cast up by the fury of the waves. It was my boat, much shattered and
splintered. A little further on, a vague, shapeless something was
washing to and fro in the shallow water, all mixed with shingle and with
seaweed. I saw at a glance that it was the Russian, face downwards and
dead. I rushed into the water and dragged him up on to the beach. It was
only when I turned him over that I discovered that she was beneath him,
his dead arms encircling her, his mangled body still intervening between
her and the fury of the storm. It seemed that the fierce German Sea
might beat the life from him, but with all its strength it was unable to
tear this one-idea'd man from the woman whom he loved. There were signs
which led me to believe that during that awful night the woman's fickle
mind had come at last to learn the worth of the true heart and strong
arm which struggled for her and guarded her so tenderly. Why else should
her little head be nestling so lovingly on his broad breast, while her
yellow hair entwined itself with his flowing beard? Why too should there
be that bright smile of ineffable happiness and triumph, which death
itself had not had power to banish from his dusky face? I fancy that
death had been brighter to him than life had ever been.

Madge and I buried them there on the shores of the desolate northern
sea. They lie in one grave deep down beneath the yellow sand. Strange
things may happen in the world around them. Empires may rise and may
fall, dynasties may perish, great wars may come and go, but, heedless
of it all, those two shall embrace each other for ever and aye, in
their lonely shrine by the side of the sounding ocean. I sometimes have
thought that their spirits flit like shadowy sea-mews over the wild
waters of the bay. No cross or symbol marks their resting-place, but old
Madge puts wild flowers upon it at times, and when I pass on my daily
walk and see the fresh blossoms scattered over the sand, I think of the
strange couple who came from afar, and broke for a little space the dull
tenor of my sombre life.




THAT LITTLE SQUARE BOX.

"All aboard?" said the captain.

"All aboard, sir!" said the mate.

"Then stand by to let her go."

It was nine o'clock on a Wednesday morning. The good ship Spartan was
lying off Boston Quay with her cargo under hatches, her passengers
shipped, and everything prepared for a start. The warning whistle had
been sounded twice; the final bell had been rung. Her bowsprit was
turned towards England, and the hiss of escaping steam showed that all
was ready for her run of three thousand miles. She strained at the warps
that held her like a greyhound at its leash.

I have the misfortune to be a very nervous man. A sedentary literary
life has helped to increase the morbid love of solitude which, even in
my boyhood, was one of my distinguishing characteristics. As I stood
upon the quarter-deck of the Transatlantic steamer, I bitterly cursed
the necessity which drove me back to the land of my forefathers. The
shouts of the sailors, the rattle of the cordage, the farewells of my
fellow-passengers, and the cheers of the mob, each and all jarred upon
my sensitive nature. I felt sad too. An indescribable feeling, as of
some impending calamity, seemed to haunt me. The sea was calm, and the
breeze light. There was nothing to disturb the equanimity of the most
confirmed of landsmen, yet I felt as if I stood upon the verge of a
great though indefinable danger. I have noticed that such presentiments
occur often in men of my peculiar temperament, and that they are not
uncommonly fulfilled. There is a theory that it arises from a species of
second-sight, a subtle spiritual communication with the future. I well
remember that Herr Raumer, the eminent spiritualist, remarked on one
occasion that I was the most sensitive subject as regards supernatural
phenomena that he had ever encountered in the whole of his wide
experience. Be that as it may, I certainly felt far from happy as I
threaded my way among the weeping, cheering groups which dotted the
white decks of the good ship Spartan. Had I known the experience which
awaited me in the course of the next twelve hours I should even then at
the last moment have sprung upon the shore, and made my escape from the
accursed vessel.

"Time's up!" said the captain, closing his chronometer with a snap, and
replacing it in his pocket. "Time's up!" said the mate. There was a last
wail from the whistle, a rush of friends and relatives upon the land.
One warp was loosened, the gangway was being pushed away, when there was
a shout from the bridge, and two men appeared, running rapidly down
the quay. They were waving their hands and making frantic gestures,
apparently with the intention of stopping the ship. "Look sharp!"
shouted the crowd.

"Hold hard!" cried the captain. "Ease her! stop her! Up with the
gangway!" and the two men sprang aboard just as the second warp parted,
and a convulsive throb of the engine shot us clear of the shore. There
was a cheer from the deck, another from the quay, a mighty fluttering of
handkerchiefs, and the great vessel ploughed its way out of the harbour,
and steamed grandly away across the placid bay.

We were fairly started upon our fortnight's voyage. There was a general
dive among the passengers in quest of berths and luggage, while a
popping of corks in the saloon proved that more than one bereaved
traveller was adopting artificial means for drowning the pangs of
separation. I glanced round the deck and took a running inventory of my
compagnons de voyage. They presented the usual types met with upon
these occasions. There was no striking face among them. I speak as
a connoisseur, for faces are a specialty of mine. I pounce upon a
characteristic feature as a botanist does on a flower, and bear it away
with me to analyse at my leisure, and classify and label it in my little
anthropological museum. There was nothing worthy of me here. Twenty
types of young America going to "Yurrup," a few respectable middle-aged
couples as an antidote, a sprinkling of clergymen and professional men,
young ladies, bagmen, British exclusives, and all the olla podrida of
an ocean-going steamer. I turned away from them and gazed back at the
receding shores of America, and, as a cloud of remembrances rose
before me, my heart warmed towards the land of my adoption. A pile of
portmanteaus and luggage chanced to be lying on one side of the deck,
awaiting their turn to be taken below. With my usual love for solitude I
walked behind these, and sitting on a coil of rope between them and the
vessel's side, I indulged in a melancholy reverie.

I was aroused from this by a whisper behind me. "Here's a quiet place,"
said the voice. "Sit down, and we can talk it over in safety."

Glancing through a chink between two colossal chests, I saw that the
passengers who had joined us at the last moment were standing at
the other side of the pile. They had evidently failed to see me as I
crouched in the shadow of the boxes. The one who had spoken was a tall
and very thin man with a blue-black beard and a colourless face. His
manner was nervous and excited. His companion was a short plethoric
little fellow, with a brisk and resolute air. He had a cigar in his
mouth, and a large ulster slung over his left arm. They both glanced
round uneasily, as if to ascertain whether they were alone. "This is
just the place," I heard the other say. They sat down on a bale of goods
with their backs turned towards me, and I found myself, much against my
will, playing the unpleasant part of eavesdropper to their conversation.

"Well, Muller," said the taller of the two, "we've got it aboard right
enough."

"Yes," assented the man whom he had addressed as Muller, "it's safe
aboard."

"It was rather a near go."

"It was that, Flannigan."

"It wouldn't have done to have missed the ship."

"No, it would have put our plans out."

"Ruined them entirely," said the little man, and puffed furiously at his
cigar for some minutes.

"I've got it here," he said at last.

"Let me see it."

"Is no one looking?"

"No, they are nearly all below."

"We can't be too careful where so much is at stake," said Muller, as he
uncoiled the ulster which hung over his arm, and disclosed a dark object
which he laid upon the deck. One glance at it was enough to cause me to
spring to my feet with an exclamation of horror. Luckily they were so
engrossed in the matter on hand that neither of them observed me. Had
they turned their heads they would infallibly have seen my pale face
glaring at them over the pile of boxes.

From the first moment of their conversation a horrible misgiving had
come over me. It seemed more than confirmed as I gazed at what lay
before me. It was a little square box made of some dark wood, and ribbed
with brass. I suppose it was about the size of a cubic foot. It
reminded me of a pistol-case, only it was decidedly higher. There was
an appendage to it, however, on which my eyes were riveted, and which
suggested the pistol itself rather than its receptacle. This was a
trigger-like arrangement upon the lid, to which a coil of string was
attached. Beside this trigger there was a small square aperture through
the wood. The tall man, Flannigan, as his companion called him, applied
his eye to this, and peered in for several minutes with an expression of
intense anxiety upon his face.

"It seems right enough," he said at last.

"I tried not to shake it," said his companion.

"Such delicate things need delicate treatment. Put in some of the
needful, Muller."

The shorter man fumbled in his pocket for some time, and then produced a
small paper packet. He opened this, and took out of it half a handful
of whitish granules, which he poured down through the hole. A curious
clicking noise followed from the inside of the box, and both the men
smiled in a satisfied way.

"Nothing much wrong there," said Flannigan.

"Right as a trivet," answered his companion.

"Look out! here's some one coming. Take it down to our berth. It
wouldn't do to have any one suspecting what our game is, or, worse
still, have them fumbling with it, and letting it off by mistake."

"Well, it would come to the same, whoever let it off," said Muller.

"They'd be rather astonished if they pulled the trigger," said the
taller, with a sinister laugh. "Ha, ha! fancy their faces! It's not a
bad bit of workmanship, I flatter myself."

"No," said Muller. "I hear it is your own design, every bit of it, isn't
it?"

"Yes, the spring and the sliding shutter are my own."

"We should take out a patent."

And the two men laughed again with a cold harsh laugh, as they took up
the little brass-bound package, and concealed it in Muller's voluminous
overcoat.

"Come down, and we'll stow it in our berth," said Flannigan. "We won't
need it until to-night, and it will be safe there."

His companion assented, and the two went arm-in-arm along the deck and
disappeared down the hatchway, bearing the mysterious little box away
with them. The last words I heard were a muttered injunction from
Flannigan to carry it carefully, and avoid knocking it against the
bulwarks.

How long I remained sitting on that coil of rope I shall never know. The
horror of the conversation I had just overheard was aggravated by the
first sinking qualms of sea-sickness. The long roll of the Atlantic
was beginning to assert itself over both ship and passengers. I felt
prostrated in mind and in body, and fell into a state of collapse,
from which I was finally aroused by the hearty voice of our worthy
quartermaster.

"Do you mind moving out of that, sir?" he said. "We want to get this
lumber cleared off the deck."

His bluff manner and ruddy healthy face seemed to be a positive insult
to me in my present condition. Had I been a courageous or a muscular
man I could have struck him. As it was, I treated the honest sailor to a
melodramatic scowl which seemed to cause him no small astonishment,
and strode past him to the other side of the deck. Solitude was what I
wanted--solitude in which I could brood over the frightful crime which
was being hatched before my very eyes. One of the quarter-boats was
hanging rather low down upon the davits. An idea struck me, and climbing
on the bulwarks, I stepped into the empty boat and lay down in the
bottom of it. Stretched on my back, with nothing but the blue sky above
me, and an occasional view of the mizen as the vessel rolled, I was at
least alone with my sickness and my thoughts.

I tried to recall the words which had been spoken in the terrible
dialogue I had overheard. Would they admit of any construction but the
one which stared me in the face? My reason forced me to confess that
they would not. I endeavoured to array the various facts which formed
the chain of circumstantial evidence, and to find a flaw in it; but
no, not a link was missing. There was the strange way in which our
passengers had come aboard, enabling them to evade any examination of
their luggage. The very name of "Flannigan" smacked of Fenianism,
while "Muller" suggested nothing but socialism and murder. Then their
mysterious manner; their remark that their plans would have been ruined
had they missed the ship; their fear of being observed; last, but not
least, the clenching evidence in the production of the little square
box with the trigger, and their grim joke about the face of the man who
should let it off by mistake--could these facts lead to any conclusion
other than that they were the desperate emissaries of some body,
political or otherwise, who intended to sacrifice themselves, their
fellow-passengers, and the ship, in one great holocaust? The whitish
granules which I had seen one of them pour into the box formed no doubt
a fuse or train for exploding it. I had myself heard a sound come from
it which might have emanated from some delicate piece of machinery. But
what did they mean by their allusion to to-night? Could it be that they
contemplated putting their horrible design into execution on the very
first evening of our voyage? The mere thought of it sent a cold shudder
over me, and made me for a moment superior even to the agonies of
sea-sickness.

I have remarked that I am a physical coward. I am a moral one also. It
is seldom that the two defects are united to such a degree in the one
character. I have known many men who were most sensitive to bodily
danger, and yet were distinguished for the independence and strength of
their minds. In my own case, however, I regret to say that my quiet
and retiring habits had fostered a nervous dread of doing anything
remarkable or making myself conspicuous, which exceeded, if possible,
my fear of personal peril. An ordinary mortal placed under the
circumstances in which I now found myself would have gone at once to the
Captain, confessed his fears, and put the matter into his hands. To me,
however, constituted as I am, the idea was most repugnant. The thought
of becoming the observed of all observers, cross-questioned by a
stranger, and confronted with two desperate conspirators in the
character of a denouncer, was hateful to me. Might it not by some remote
possibility prove that I was mistaken? What would be my feelings if
there should turn out to be no grounds for my accusation? No, I would
procrastinate; I would keep my eye on the two desperadoes and dog them
at every turn. Anything was better than the possibility of being wrong.

Then it struck me that even at that moment some new phase of the
conspiracy might be developing itself. The nervous excitement seemed
to have driven away my incipient attack of sickness, for I was able to
stand up and lower myself from the boat without experiencing any return
of it. I staggered along the deck with the intention of descending into
the cabin and finding how my acquaintances of the morning were
occupying themselves. Just as I had my hand on the companion-rail, I was
astonished by receiving a hearty slap on the back, which nearly shot me
down the steps with more haste than dignity.

"Is that you, Hammond?" said a voice which I seemed to recognise.

"God bless me," I said, as I turned round, "it can't be Dick Merton!
Why, how are you, old man?"

This was an unexpected piece of luck in the midst of my perplexities.
Dick was just the man I wanted; kindly and shrewd in his nature, and
prompt in his actions, I should have no difficulty in telling him my
suspicions, and could rely upon his sound sense to point out the best
course to pursue. Since I was a little lad in the second form at
Harrow, Dick had been my adviser and protector. He saw at a glance that
something had gone wrong with me.

"Hullo!" he said, in his kindly way, "what's put you about, Hammond? You
look as white as a sheet. Mal de mer, eh?"

"No, not that altogether," said I. "Walk up and down with me, Dick; I
want to speak to you. Give me your arm."

Supporting myself on Dick's stalwart frame, I tottered along by his
side; but it was some time before I could muster resolution to speak.

"Have a cigar," said he, breaking the silence.

"No, thanks," said I. "Dick, we shall be all corpses to-night."

"That's no reason against your having a cigar now," said Dick, in his
cool way, but looking hard at me from under his shaggy eyebrows as he
spoke. He evidently thought that my intellect was a little gone.

"No," I continued, "it's no laughing matter; and I speak in sober
earnest, I assure you. I have discovered an infamous conspiracy,
Dick, to destroy this ship and every soul that is in her;" and I then
proceeded systematically, and in order, to lay before him the chain of
evidence which I had collected. "There, Dick," I said, as I concluded,
"what do you think of that? and, above all, what am I to do?"

To my astonishment he burst into a hearty fit of laughter.

"I'd be frightened," he said, "if any fellow but you had told me as
much. You always had a way, Hammond, of discovering mares' nests. I like
to see the old traits breaking out again. Do you remember at school how
you swore there was a ghost in the long room, and how it turned out to
be your own reflection in the mirror. Why, man," he continued, "what
object would any one have in destroying this ship? We have no great
political guns aboard. On the contrary, the majority of the passengers
are Americans. Besides, in this sober nineteenth century, the most
wholesale murderers stop at including themselves among their victims.
Depend upon it, you have misunderstood them, and have mistaken a
photographic camera, or something equally innocent, for an infernal
machine."

"Nothing of the sort, sir," said I, rather touchily "You will learn to
your cost, I fear, that I have neither exaggerated nor misinterpreted a
word. As to the box, I have certainly never before seen one like it. It
contained delicate machinery; of that I am convinced, from the way in
which the men handled it and spoke of it."

"You'd make out every packet of perishable goods to be a torpedo," said
Dick, "if that is to be your only test."

"The man's name was Flannigan," I continued.

"I don't think that would go very far in a court of law," said Dick;
"but come, I have finished my cigar. Suppose we go down together and
split a bottle of claret. You can point out these two Orsinis to me if
they are still in the cabin."

"All right," I answered; "I am determined not to lose sight of them all
day. Don't look hard at them, though, for I don't want them to think
that they are being watched."

"Trust me," said Dick; "I'll look as unconscious and guileless as a
lamb;" and with that we passed down the companion and into the saloon.

A good many passengers were scattered about the great central table,
some wrestling with refractory carpet bags and rug-straps, some having
their luncheon, and a few reading and otherwise amusing themselves. The
objects of our quest were not there. We passed down the room and peered
into every berth, but there was no sign of them. "Heavens!" thought I,
"perhaps at this very moment they are beneath our feet, in the hold or
engine-room, preparing their diabolical contrivance!" It was better to
know the worst than to remain in such suspense.

"Steward," said Dick, "are there any other gentlemen about?"

"There's two in the smoking-room, sir," answered the steward.

The smoking-room was a little snuggery, luxuriously fitted up, and
adjoining the pantry. We pushed the door open and entered. A sigh of
relief escaped from my bosom. The very first object on which my eye
rested was the cadaverous face of Flannigan, with its hard-set mouth
and unwinking eye. His companion sat opposite to him. They were both
drinking, and a pile of cards lay upon the table. They were engaged in
playing as we entered. I nudged Dick to show him that we had found
our quarry, and we sat down beside them with as unconcerned an air
as possible. The two conspirators seemed to take little notice of our
presence. I watched them both narrowly. The game at which they were
playing was "Napoleon." Both were adepts at it, and I could not help
admiring the consummate nerve of men who, with such a secret at their
hearts, could devote their minds to the manipulating of a long suit or
the finessing of a queen. Money changed hands rapidly; but the run of
luck seemed to be all against the taller of the two players. At last he
threw down his cards on the table with an oath, and refused to go on.

"No, I'm hanged if I do," he said; "I haven't had more than two of a
suit for five hands."

"Never mind," said his comrade, as he gathered up his winnings; "a few
dollars one way or the other won't go very far after to-night's work."

I was astonished at the rascal's audacity, but took care to keep my eyes
fixed abstractedly upon the ceiling, and drank my wine in as unconscious
a manner as possible. I felt that Flannigan was looking towards me with
his wolfish eyes to see if I had noticed the allusion. He whispered
something to his companion which I failed to catch. It was a caution, I
suppose, for the other answered rather angrily--

"Nonsense! Why shouldn't I say what I like? Over-caution is just what
would ruin us."

"I believe you want it not to come off," said Flannigan.

"You believe nothing of the sort," said the other, speaking rapidly and
loudly. "You know as well as I do that when I play for a stake I like to
win it. But I won't have my words criticised and cut short by you or any
other man. I have as much interest in our success as you have--more, I
hope."

He was quite hot about it, and puffed furiously at his cigar for some
minutes. The eyes of the other ruffian wandered alternately from Dick
Merton to myself. I knew that I was in the presence of a desperate man,
that a quiver of my lip might be the signal for him to plunge a weapon
into my heart, but I betrayed more self-command than I should have given
myself credit for under such trying circumstances. As to Dick, he was as
immovable and apparently as unconscious as the Egyptian Sphinx.

There was silence for some time in the smoking-room, broken only by the
crisp rattle of the cards, as the man Muller shuffled them up before
replacing them in his pocket. He still seemed to be somewhat flushed and
irritable. Throwing the end of his cigar into the spittoon, he glanced
defiantly at his companion and turned towards me.

"Can you tell me, sir," he said, "when this ship will be heard of
again?"

They were both looking at me; but though my face may have turned a
trifle paler, my voice was as steady as ever as I answered--

"I presume, sir, that it will be heard of first when it enters
Queenstown Harbour."

"Ha, ha!" laughed the angry little man, "I knew you would say that.
Don't you kick me under the table, Flannigan, I won't stand it. I know
what I am doing. You are wrong, sir," he continued, turning to me,
"utterly wrong."

"Some passing ship, perhaps," suggested Dick.

"No, nor that either."

"The weather is fine," I said; "why should we not be heard of at our
destination."

"I didn't say we shouldn't be heard of at our destination. Possibly we
may not, and in any case that is not where we shall be heard of first."

"Where then?" asked Dick.

"That you shall never know. Suffice it that a rapid and mysterious
agency will signal our whereabouts, and that before the day is out. Ha,
ha!" and he chuckled once again.

"Come on deck!" growled his comrade; "you have drunk too much of that
confounded brandy-and-water. It has loosened your tongue. Come away!"
and taking him by the arm he half led him, half forced him out of the
smoking-room, and we heard them stumbling up the companion together, and
on to the deck.

"Well, what do you think now?" I gasped, as I turned towards Dick. He
was as imperturbable as ever.

"Think!" he said; "why, I think what his companion thinks, that we have
been listening to the ravings of a half-drunken man. The fellow stunk of
brandy."

"Nonsense, Dick I you saw how the other tried to stop his tongue."

"Of course he did. He didn't want his friend to make a fool of himself
before strangers. Maybe the short one is a lunatic, and the other his
private keeper. It's quite possible."

"O Dick, Dick," I cried, "how can you be so blind! Don't you see that
every word confirmed our previous suspicion?"

"Humbug, man!" said Dick; "you're working yourself into a state of
nervous excitement. Why, what the devil do you make of all that nonsense
about a mysterious agent which would signal our whereabouts?"

"I'll tell you what he meant, Dick," I said, bending forward and
grasping my friend's arm. "He meant a sudden glare and a flash seen far
out at sea by some lonely fisherman off the American coast. That's what
he meant."

"I didn't think you were such a fool, Hammond," said Dick Merton
testily. "If you try to fix a literal meaning on the twaddle that every
drunken man talks, you will come to some queer conclusions. Let us
follow their example, and go on deck. You need fresh air, I think.
Depend upon it, your liver is out of order. A sea-voyage will do you a
world of good."

"If ever I see the end of this one," I groaned, "I'll promise never
to venture on another. They are laying the cloth, so it's hardly worth
while my going up. I'll stay below and unpack my things."

"I hope dinner will find you in a more pleasant state of mind," said
Dick; and he went out, leaving me to my thoughts until the clang of the
great gong summoned us to the saloon.

My appetite, I need hardly say, had not been improved by the incidents
which had occurred during the day. I sat down, however, mechanically at
the table, and listened to the talk which was going on around me. There
were nearly a hundred first-class passengers, and as the wine began to
circulate, their voices combined with the clash of the dishes to form
a perfect Babel. I found myself seated between a very stout and nervous
old lady and a prim little clergyman; and as neither made any advances I
retired into my shell, and spent my time in observing the appearance of
my fellow-voyagers. I could see Dick in the dim distance dividing his
attentions between a jointless fowl in front of him and a self-possessed
young lady at his side. Captain Dowie was doing the honours at my end,
while the surgeon of the vessel was seated at the other. I was glad to
notice that Flannigan was placed almost opposite to me. As long as I had
him before my eyes I knew that, for the time at least, we were safe. He
was sitting with what was meant to be a sociable smile on his grim face.
It did not escape me that he drank largely of wine--so largely that even
before the dessert appeared his voice had become decidedly husky. His
friend Muller was seated a few places lower down. He ate little, and
appeared to be nervous and restless.

"Now, ladies," said our genial Captain, "I trust that you will consider
yourselves at home aboard my vessel. I have no fears for the gentlemen.
A bottle of champagne, steward. Here's to a fresh breeze and a quick
passage! I trust our friends in America will hear of our safe arrival in
eight days, or in nine at the very latest."

I looked up. Quick as was the glance which passed between Flannigan and
his confederate, I was able to intercept it. There was an evil smile
upon the former's thin lips.

The conversation rippled on. Politics, the sea, amusements, religion,
each was in turn discussed. I remained a silent though an interested
listener. It struck me that no harm could be done by introducing the
subject which was ever in my mind. It could be managed in an off-hand
way, and would at least have the effect of turning the Captain's
thoughts in that direction. I could watch, too, what effect it would
have upon the faces of the conspirators.

There was a sudden lull in the conversation. The ordinary subjects of
interest appeared to be exhausted. The opportunity was a favourable one.

"May I ask, Captain," I said, bending forward and speaking very
distinctly, "what you think of Fenian manifestoes?"

The Captain's ruddy face became a shade darker from honest indignation.

"They are poor cowardly things," he said, "as silly as they are wicked."

"The impotent threats of a set of anonymous scoundrels," said a
pompous-looking old gentleman beside him.

"O Captain!" said the fat lady at my side, "you don't really think they
would blow up a ship?"

"I have no doubt they would if they could. But I am very sure they shall
never blow up mine."

"May I ask what precautions are taken against them?" asked an elderly
man at the end of the table.

"All goods sent aboard the ship are strictly examined," said Captain
Dowie.

"But suppose a man brought explosives aboard with him?" I suggested.

"They are too cowardly to risk their own lives in that way."

During this conversation Flannigan had not betrayed the slightest
interest in what was going on. He raised his head now and looked at the
Captain.

"Don't you think you are rather underrating them?" he said. "Every
secret society has produced desperate men--why shouldn't the Fenians
have them too? Many men think it a privilege to die in the service of a
cause which seems right in their eyes, though others may think it wrong."

"Indiscriminate murder cannot be right in anybody's eyes," said the
little clergyman.

"The bombardment of Paris was nothing else," said Flannigan; "yet the
whole civilised world agreed to look on with folded arms, and change
the ugly word 'murder' into the more euphonious one of 'war.' It seemed
right enough to German eyes; why shouldn't dynamite seem so to the
Fenian?"

"At any rate their empty vapourings have led to nothing as yet," said
the Captain.

"Excuse me," returned Flannigan, "but is there not some room for doubt
yet as to the fate of the Dotterel? I have met men in America who
asserted from their own personal knowledge that there was a coal torpedo
aboard that vessel."

"Then they lied," said the Captain. "It was proved conclusively at the
court-martial to have arisen from an explosion of coal-gas--but we had
better change the subject, or we may cause the ladies to have a restless
night;" and the conversation once more drifted back into its original
channel.

During this little discussion Flannigan had argued his point with a
gentlemanly deference and a quiet power for which I had not given him
credit. I could not help admiring a man who, on the eve of a desperate
enterprise, could courteously argue upon a point which must touch him so
nearly. He had, as I have already mentioned, partaken of a considerable
quantity of wine; but though there was a slight flush upon his pale
cheek, his manner was as reserved as ever. He did not join in the
conversation again, but seemed to be lost in thought.

A whirl of conflicting ideas was battling in my own mind. What was I to
do? Should I stand up now and denounce them before both passengers and
Captain? Should I demand a few minutes' conversation with the latter in
his own cabin, and reveal it all? For an instant I was half resolved to
do it, but then the old constitutional timidity came back with redoubled
force. After all there might be some mistake. Dick had heard the
evidence and had refused to believe in it. I determined to let things go
on their course. A strange reckless feeling came over me. Why should I
help men who were blind to their own danger? Surely it was the duty of
the officers to protect us, not ours to give warning to them. I drank
off a couple of glasses of wine, and staggered upon deck with the
determination of keeping my secret locked in my own bosom.

It was a glorious evening. Even in my excited state of mind I could not
help leaning against the bulwarks and enjoying the refreshing breeze.
Away to the westward a solitary sail stood out as a dark speck against
the great sheet of flame left by the setting sun. I shuddered as I
looked at it. It was grand but appalling. A single star was twinkling
faintly above our mainmast, but a thousand seemed to gleam in the water
below with every stroke of our propeller. The only blot in the fair
scene was the great trail of smoke which stretched away behind us like
a black slash upon a crimson curtain. It was hard to believe that
the great peace which hung over all Nature could be marred by a poor
miserable mortal.

"After all," I thought, as I gazed into the blue depths beneath me, "if
the worst comes to the worst, it is better to die here than to linger in
agony upon a sick-bed on land." A man's life seems a very paltry thing
amid the great forces of Nature. All my philosophy could not prevent my
shuddering, however, when I turned my head and saw two shadowy figures
at the other side of the deck, which I had no difficulty in recognising.
They seemed to be conversing earnestly, but I had no opportunity of
overhearing what was said; so I contented myself with pacing up and
down, and keeping a vigilant watch upon their movements.

It was a relief to me when Dick came on deck. Even an incredulous
confidant is better than none at all.

"Well, old man," he said, giving me a facetious dig in the ribs, "we've
not been blown up yet."

"No, not yet," said I; "but that's no proof that we are not going to
be."

"Nonsense, man!" said Dick; "I can't conceive what has put this
extraordinary idea into your head. I have been talking to one of your
supposed assassins, and he seems a pleasant fellow enough; quite a
sporting character, I should think, from the way he speaks."

"Dick," I said, "I am as certain that those men have an infernal
machine, and that we are on the verge of eternity, as if I saw them
putting the match to the fuse."

"Well, if you really think so," said Dick, half awed for the moment by
the earnestness of my manner, "it is your duty to let the Captain know
of your suspicions."

"You are right," I said; "I will. My absurd timidity has prevented my
doing so sooner. I believe our lives can only be saved by laying the
whole matter before him."

"Well, go and do it now," said Dick; "but for goodness' sake don't mix
me up in the matter."

"I'll speak to him when he comes off the bridge," I answered; "and in
the meantime I don't mean to lose sight of them."

"Let me know of the result," said my companion; and with a nod he
strolled away in search, I fancy, of his partner at the dinner-table.

Left to myself, I bethought me of my retreat of the morning, and
climbing on the bulwark I mounted into the quarter-boat, and lay down
there. In it I could reconsider my course of action, and by raising my
head I was able at any time to get a view of my disagreeable neighbours.

An hour passed, and the Captain was still on the bridge. He was talking
to one of the passengers, a retired naval officer, and the two were deep
in debate concerning some abstruse point in navigation. I could see the
red tips of their cigars from where I lay. It was dark now, so dark that
I could hardly make out the figures of Flannigan and his accomplice.
They were still standing in the position which they had taken up after
dinner. A few of the passengers were scattered about the deck, but
many had gone below. A strange stillness seemed to pervade the air. The
voices of the watch and the rattle of the wheel were the only sounds
which broke the silence.

Another half-hour passed. The Captain was still upon the bridge. It
seemed as if he would never come down. My nerves were in a state of
unnatural tension, so much so that the sound of two steps upon the deck
made me start up in a quiver of excitement. I peered over the edge of
the boat, and saw that our suspicious passengers had crossed from the
other side, and were standing almost directly beneath me. The light of a
binnacle fell full upon the ghastly face of the ruffian Flannigan. Even
in that short glance I saw that Muller had the ulster, whose use I knew
so well, slung loosely over his arm. I sank back with a groan. It seemed
that my fatal procrastination had sacrificed two hundred innocent lives.

I had read of the fiendish vengeance which awaited a spy. I knew that
men with their lives in their hands would stick at nothing. All I could
do was to cower at the bottom of the boat and listen silently to their
whispered talk below.

"This place will do," said a voice.

"Yes, the leeward side is best."

"I wonder if the trigger will act?"

"I am sure it will."

"We were to let it off at ten, were we not?"

"Yes, at ten sharp. We have eight minutes yet." There was a pause. Then
the voice began again--

"They'll hear the drop of the trigger, won't they?"

"It doesn't matter. It will be too late for any one to prevent its going
off."

"That's true. There will be some excitement among those we have left
behind, won't there?"

"Rather. How long do you reckon it will be before they hear of us?"

"The first news will get in at about midnight at earliest."

"That will be my doing."

"No, mine."

"Ha, ha! we'll settle that."

There was a pause here. Then I heard Muller's voice in a ghastly
whisper, "There's only five minutes more."

How slowly the moments seemed to pass! I could count them by the
throbbing of my heart.

"It'll make a sensation on land," said a voice.

"Yes, it will make a noise in the newspapers."

I raised my head and peered over the side of the boat. There seemed no
hope, no help. Death stared me in the face, whether I did or did not
give the alarm. The Captain had at last left the bridge. The deck was
deserted, save for those two dark figures crouching in the shadow of the
boat.

Flannigan had a watch lying open in his hand.

"Three minutes more," he said. "Put it down upon the deck."

"No, put it here on the bulwarks."

It was the little square box. I knew by the sound that they had placed
it near the davit, and almost exactly under my head.

I looked over again. Flannigan was pouring something out of a paper into
his hand. It was white and granular--the same that I had seen him use in
the morning. It was meant as a fuse, no doubt, for he shovelled it
into the little box, and I heard the strange noise which had previously
arrested my attention.

"A minute and a half more," he said. "Shall you or I pull the string?"

"I will pull it," said Muller.

He was kneeling down and holding the end in his hand. Flannigan stood
behind with his arms folded, and an air of grim resolution upon his
face.

I could stand it no longer. My nervous system seemed to give way in a
moment.

"Stop!" I screamed, springing to my feet. "Stop misguided and
unprincipled men!"

They both staggered backwards. I fancy they thought I was a spirit, with
the moonlight streaming down upon my pale face.

I was brave enough now. I had gone too far to retreat.

"Cain was damned," I cried, "and he slew but one; would you have the
blood of two hundred upon your souis?"

"He's mad!" said Flannigan. "Time's up. Let it off, Muller." I sprang
down upon the deck.

"You shan't do it!" I said.

"By what right do you prevent us?"

"By every right, human and divine."


"It's no business of yours. Clear out of this."

"Never!" said I.

"Confound the fellow! There's too much at stake to stand on ceremony.
I'll hold him, Muller, while you pull the trigger."

Next moment I was struggling in the herculean grasp of the Irishman.
Resistance was useless; I was a child in his hands.

He pinned me up against the side of the vessel, and held me there.

"Now," he said, "look sharp. He can't prevent us."

I felt that I was standing on the verge of eternity. Half-strangled in
the arms of the taller ruffian, I saw the other approach the fatal box.
He stooped over it and seized the string. I breathed one prayer when I
saw his grasp tighten upon it. Then came a sharp snap, a strange rasping
noise. The trigger had fallen, the side of the box flew out, and let
off--TWO GREY CARRIER PIGEONS!

Little more need be said. It is not a subject on which I care to dwell.
The whole thing is too utterly disgusting and absurd. Perhaps the best
thing I can do is to retire gracefully from the scene, and let the
sporting correspondent of the New York Herald fill my unworthy place.
Here is an extract clipped from its columns shortly after our departure
from America:--

"Pigeon-flying Extraordinary.--A novel match has been brought off last
week between the birds of John H. Flannigan, of Boston, and Jeremiah
Muller, a well-known citizen of Lowell. Both men have devoted much time
and attention to an improved breed of bird, and the challenge is an
old-standing one. The pigeons were backed to a large amount, and there
was considerable local interest in the result. The start was from the
deck of the Transatlantic steamship Spartan, at ten o'clock on the
evening of the day of starting, the vessel being then reckoned to be
about a hundred miles from the land. The bird which reached home first
was to be declared the winner. Considerable caution had, we believe, to
be observed, as some captains have a prejudice against the bringing
off of sporting events aboard their vessels. In spite of some little
difficulty at the last moment, the trap was sprung almost exactly at ten
o'clock.

"Muller's bird arrived in Lowell in an extreme state of exhaustion on the
following morning, while Flannigan's has not been heard of. The backers
of the latter have the satisfaction of knowing, however, that the whole
affair has been characterised by extreme fairness. The pigeons were
confined in a specially invented trap, which could only be opened by
the spring. It was thus possible to feed them through an aperture in the
top, but any tampering with their wings was quite out of the question.
A few such matches would go far towards popularising pigeon-flying in
America, and form an agreeable variety to the morbid exhibitions of
human endurance which have assumed such proportions during the last few
years."




JOHN HUXFORD'S HIATUS.

Strange it is and wonderful to mark how upon this planet of ours the
smallest and most insignificant of events set a train of consequences in
motion which act and react until their final results are portentous and
incalculable. Set a force rolling, however small; and who can say where
it shall end, or what it may lead to! Trifles develop into tragedies,
and the bagatelle of one day ripens into the catastrophe of the next.
An oyster throws out a secretion to surround a grain of sand, and so a
pearl comes into being; a pearl diver fishes it up, a merchant buys
it and sells it to a jeweller, who disposes of it to a customer. The
customer is robbed of it by two scoundrels who quarrel over the booty.
One slays the other, and perishes himself upon the scaffold. Here is
a direct chain of events with a sick mollusc for its first link, and a
gallows for its last one. Had that grain of sand not chanced to wash in
between the shells of the bivalve, two living breathing beings with all
their potentialities for good and for evil would not have been blotted
out from among their fellows. Who shall undertake to judge what is
really small and what is great?

Thus when in the year 1821 Don Diego Salvador bethought him that if it
paid the heretics in England to import the bark of his cork oaks, it
would pay him also to found a factory by which the corks might be cut
and sent out ready made, surely at first sight no very vital human
interests would appear to be affected. Yet there were poor folk who
would suffer, and suffer acutely--women who would weep, and men who
would become sallow and hungry-looking and dangerous in places of which
the Don had never heard, and all on account of that one idea which had
flashed across him as he strutted, cigarettiferous, beneath the grateful
shadow of his limes. So crowded is this old globe of ours, and so
interlaced our interests, that one cannot think a new thought without
some poor devil being the better or the worse for it.

Don Diego Salvador was a capitalist, and the abstract thought soon took
the concrete form of a great square plastered building wherein a couple
of hundred of his swarthy countrymen worked with deft nimble fingers at
a rate of pay which no English artisan could have accepted. Within a few
months the result of this new competition was an abrupt fall of prices
in the trade, which was serious for the largest firms and disastrous
for the smaller ones. A few old-established houses held on as they were,
others reduced their establishments and cut down their expenses, while
one or two put up their shutters and confessed themselves beaten. In
this last unfortunate category was the ancient and respected firm of
Fairbairn Brothers of Brisport.

Several causes had led up to this disaster, though Don Diego's debut as
a corkcutter had brought matters to a head. When a couple of generations
back the original Fairbairn had founded the business, Brisport was a
little fishing town with no outlet or occupation for her superfluous
population. Men were glad to have safe and continuous work upon any
terms. All this was altered now, for the town was expanding into the
centre of a large district in the west, and the demand for labour and
its remuneration had proportionately increased. Again, in the old days,
when carriage was ruinous and communication slow, the vintners of Exeter
and of Barnstaple were glad to buy their corks from their neighbour of
Brisport; but now the large London houses sent down their travellers,
who competed with each other to gain the local custom, until profits
were cut down to the vanishing point. For a long time the firm had been
in a precarious position, but this further drop in prices settled the
matter, and compelled Mr. Charles Fairbairn, the acting manager, to
close his establishment.

It was a murky, foggy Saturday afternoon in November when the hands
were paid for the last time, and the old building was to be finally
abandoned. Mr. Fairbairn, an anxious-faced, sorrow-worn man, stood on
a raised dais by the cashier while he handed the little pile of
hardly-earned shillings and coppers to each successive workman as the
long procession filed past his table. It was usual with the employees to
clatter away the instant that they had been paid, like so many children
let out of school; but to-day they waited, forming little groups over
the great dreary room, and discussing in subdued voices the misfortune
which had come upon their employers, and the future which awaited
themselves. When the last pile of coins had been handed across the
table, and the last name checked by the cashier, the whole throng
faced silently round to the man who had been their master, and waited
expectantly for any words which he might have to say to them.

Mr. Charles Fairbairn had not expected this, and it embarrassed him. He
had waited as a matter of routine duty until the wages were paid, but
he was a taciturn, slow-witted man, and he had not foreseen this sudden
call upon his oratorical powers. He stroked his thin cheek nervously
with his long white fingers, and looked down with weak watery eyes at
the mosaic of upturned serious faces.

"I am sorry that we have to part, my men," he said at last in a
crackling voice. "It's a bad day for all of us, and for Brisport too.
For three years we have been losing money over the works. We held on in
the hope of a change coming, but matters are going from bad to worse.
There's nothing for it but to give it up before the balance of our
fortune is swallowed up. I hope you may all be able to get work of some
sort before very long. Good-bye, and God bless you!"

"God bless you, sir! God bless you!" cried a chorus of rough voices.
"Three cheers for Mr. Charles Fairbairn!" shouted a bright-eyed, smart
young fellow, springing up upon a bench and waving his peaked cap in the
air. The crowd responded to the call, but their huzzas wanted the true
ring which only a joyous heart can give. Then they began to flock out
into the sunlight, looking back as they went at the long deal tables and
the cork-strewn floor--above all at the sad-faced, solitary man,
whose cheeks were flecked with colour at the rough cordiality of their
farewell.

"Huxford," said the cashier, touching on the shoulder the young fellow
who had led the cheering; "the governor wants to speak to you."

The workman turned back and stood swinging his cap awkwardly in front of
his ex-employer, while the crowd pushed on until the doorway was clear,
and the heavy fog-wreaths rolled unchecked into the deserted factory.

"Ah, John!" said Mr. Fairbairn, coming suddenly out of his reverie and
taking up a letter from the table. "You have been in my service since
you were a boy, and you have shown that you merited the trust which I
have placed in you. From what I have heard I think I am right in saying
that this sudden want of work will affect your plans more than it will
many of my other hands."

"I was to be married at Shrovetide," the man answered, tracing a pattern
upon the table with his horny forefinger. "I'll have to find work
first."

"And work, my poor fellow, is by no means easy to find. You see you have
been in this groove all your life, and are unfit for anything else.
It's true you've been my foreman, but even that won't help you, for
the factories all over England are discharging hands, and there's not a
vacancy to be had. It's a bad outlook for you and such as you."

"What would you advise, then, sir?" asked John Huxford.

"That's what I was coming to. I have a letter here from Sheridan and
Moore, of Montreal, asking for a good hand to take charge of a workroom.
If you think it will suit you, you can go out by the next boat. The
wages are far in excess of anything which I have been able to give you."

"Why, sir, this is real kind of you," the young workman said earnestly.
"She--my girl--Mary, will be as grateful to you as I am. I know what you
say is right, and that if I had to look for work I should be likely to
spend the little that I have laid by towards housekeeping before I found
it. But, sir, with your leave I'd like to speak to her about it before I
made up my mind. Could you leave it open for a few hours?"

"The mail goes out to-morrow," Mr. Fairbairn answered. "If you decide to
accept you can write tonight. Here is their letter, which will give you
their address."

John Huxford took the precious paper with a grateful heart. An hour ago
his future had been all black, but now this rift of light had broken in
the west, giving promise of better things. He would have liked to have
said something expressive of his feelings to his employer, but the
English nature is not effusive, and he could not get beyond a
few choking awkward words which were as awkwardly received by his
benefactor. With a scrape and a bow, he turned on his heel, and plunged
out into the foggy street.

So thick was the vapour that the houses over the way were only a vague
loom, but the foreman hurried on with springy steps through side streets
and winding lanes, past walls where the fishermen's nets were drying,
and over cobble-stoned alleys redolent of herring, until he reached a
modest line of whitewashed cottages fronting the sea. At the door of one
of these the young man tapped, and then without waiting for a response,
pressed down the latch and walked in.

An old silvery-haired woman and a young girl hardly out of her teens
were sitting on either side of the fire, and the latter sprang to her
feet as he entered.

"You've got some good news, John," she cried, putting her hands upon his
shoulders, and looking into his eyes. "I can tell it from your step. Mr.
Fairbairn is going to carry on after all."

"No, dear, not so good as that," John Huxford answered, smoothing back
her rich brown hair; "but I have an offer of a place in Canada, with
good money, and if you think as I do, I shall go out to it, and you can
follow with the granny whenever I have made all straight for you at the
other side. What say you to that, my lass?"

"Why, surely, John, what you think is right must be for the best," said
the girl quietly, with trust and confidence in her pale plain face and
loving hazel eyes. "But poor granny, how is she to cross the seas?"

"Oh, never mind about me," the old woman broke in cheerfully. "I'll be
no drag on you. If you want granny, granny's not too old to travel; and
if you don't want her, why she can look after the cottage, and have an
English home ready for you whenever you turn back to the old country."

"Of course we shall need you, granny," John Huxford said, with a cheery
laugh. "Fancy leaving granny behind! That would never do! Mary! But
if you both come out, and if we are married all snug and proper at
Montreal, we'll look through the whole city until we find a house
something like this one, and we'll have creepers on the outside just
the same, and when the doors are shut and we sit round the fire on the
winter's nights, I'm hanged if we'll be able to tell that we're not at
home. Besides, Mary, it's the same speech out there, and the same king
and the same flag; it's not like a foreign country."

"No, of course not," Mary answered with conviction. She was an orphan
with no living relation save her old grandmother, and no thought in life
but to make a helpful and worthy wife to the man she loved. Where these
two were she could not fail to find happiness. If John went to Canada,
then Canada became home to her, for what had Brisport to offer when he
was gone?

"I'm to write to-night then and accept?" the young man asked. "I knew
you would both be of the same mind as myself, but of course I couldn't
close with the offer until we had talked it over. I can get started in a
week or two, and then in a couple of months I'll have all ready for you
on the other side."

"It will be a weary, weary time until we hear from you, dear John," said
Mary, clasping his hand; "but it's God's will, and we must be patient.
Here's pen and ink. You can sit at the table and write the letter which
is to take the three of us across the Atlantic." Strange how Don Diego's
thoughts were moulding human lives in the little Devon village.

The acceptance was duly despatched, and John Huxford began immediately
to prepare for his departure, for the Montreal firm had intimated that
the vacancy was a certainty, and that the chosen man might come out
without delay to take over his duties. In a very few days his scanty
outfit was completed, and he started off in a coasting vessel for
Liverpool, where he was to catch the passenger ship for Quebec.

"Remember, John," Mary whispered, as he pressed her to his heart upon
the Brisport quay, "the cottage is our own, and come what may, we have
always that to fall back upon. If things should chance to turn out badly
over there, we have always a roof to cover us. There you will find me
until you send word to us to come."

"And that will be very soon, my lass," he answered cheerfully, with a
last embrace. "Good-bye, granny, good-bye." The ship was a mile and more
from the land before he lost sight of the figures of the straight slim
girl and her old companion, who stood watching and waving to him from
the end of the grey stone quay. It was with a sinking heart and a vague
feeling of impending disaster that he saw them at last as minute specks
in the distance, walking townward and disappearing amid the crowd who
lined the beach.

From Liverpool the old woman and her granddaughter received a letter
from John announcing that he was just starting in the barque St.
Lawrence, and six weeks afterwards a second longer epistle informed them
of his safe arrival at Quebec, and gave them his first impressions of
the country. After that a long unbroken silence set in. Week after week
and month after month passed by, and never a word came from across the
seas. A year went over their heads, and yet another, but no news of the
absentee. Sheridan and Moore were written to, and replied that though
John Huxford's letter had reached them, he had never presented himself,
and they had been forced to fill up the vacancy as best they could.
Still Mary and her grandmother hoped against hope, and looked out
for the letter-carrier every morning with such eagerness, that the
kind-hearted man would often make a detour rather than pass the two
pale anxious faces which peered at him from the cottage window. At last,
three years after the young foreman's disappearance, old granny died,
and Mary was left alone, a broken sorrowful woman, living as best she
might on a small annuity which had descended to her, and eating her
heart out as she brooded over the mystery which hung over the fate of
her lover.

Among the shrewd west-country neighbours there had long, however, ceased
to be any mystery in the matter. Huxford arrived safely in Canada--so
much was proved by his letter. Had he met with his end in any sudden
way during the journey between Quebec and Montreal, there must have
been some official inquiry, and his luggage would have sufficed to have
established his identity. Yet the Canadian police had been communicated
with, and had returned a positive answer that no inquest had been held,
or any body found, which could by any possibility be that of the young
Englishman. The only alternative appeared to be that he had taken the
first opportunity to break all the old ties, and had slipped away to the
backwoods or to the States to commence life anew under an altered name.
Why he should do this no one professed to know, but that he had done it
appeared only too probable from the facts. Hence many a deep growl of
righteous anger rose from the brawny smacksmen when Mary with her pale
face and sorrow-sunken head passed along the quays on her way to her
daily marketing; and it is more than likely that if the missing man had
turned up in Brisport he might have met with some rough words or rougher
usage, unless he could give some very good reason for his strange
conduct. This popular view of the case never, however, occurred to the
simple trusting heart of the lonely girl, and as the years rolled by her
grief and her suspense were never for an instant tinged with a doubt as
to the good faith of the missing man. From youth she grew into middle
age, and from that into the autumn of her life, patient, long-suffering,
and faithful, doing good as far as lay in her power, and waiting humbly
until fate should restore either in this world or the next that which it
had so mysteriously deprived her of.

In the meantime neither the opinion held by the minority that John
Huxford was dead, nor that of the majority, which pronounced him to be
faithless, represented the true state of the case. Still alive, and of
stainless honour, he had yet been singled out by fortune as her victim
in one of those strange freaks which are of such rare occurrence, and so
beyond the general experience, that they might be put by as incredible,
had we not the most trustworthy evidence of their occasional
possibility.

Landing at Quebec, with his heart full of hope and courage, John
selected a dingy room in a back street, where the terms were less
exorbitant than elsewhere, and conveyed thither the two boxes which
contained his worldly goods. After taking up his quarters there he had
half a mind to change again, for the landlady and the fellow-lodgers
were by no means to his taste; but the Montreal coach started within a
day or two, and he consoled himself by the thought that the discomfort
would only last for that short time. Having written home to Mary to
announce his safe arrival, he employed himself in seeing as much of the
town as was possible, walking about all day, and only returning to his
room at night.

It happened, however, that the house on which the unfortunate youth had
pitched was one which was notorious for the character of its inmates.
He had been directed to it by a pimp, who found regular employment
in hanging about the docks and decoying new-comers to this den.
The fellow's specious manner and proffered civility had led the
simple-hearted west-countryman into the toils, and though his instinct
told him that he was in unsafe company, he refrained, unfortunately,
from at once making his escape. He contented himself with staying out
all day, and associating as little as possible with the other inmates.
From the few words which he did let drop, however, the landlady gathered
that he was a stranger without a single friend in the country to inquire
after him should misfortune overtake him.

The house had an evil reputation for the hocussing of sailors, which
was done not only for the purpose of plundering them, but also to supply
outgoing ships with crews, the men being carried on board insensible,
and not coming to until the ship was well down the St. Lawrence. This
trade caused the wretches who followed it to be experts in the use of
stupefying drugs, and they determined to practise their arts upon
their friendless lodger, so as to have an opportunity of ransacking his
effects, and of seeing what it might be worth their while to purloin.
During the day he invariably locked his door and carried off the key in
his pocket, but if they could render him insensible for the night they
could examine his boxes at their leisure, and deny afterwards that he
had ever brought with him the articles which he missed. It happened,
therefore, upon the eve of Huxford's departure from Quebec, that he
found, upon returning to his lodgings, that his landlady and her two
ill-favoured sons, who assisted her in her trade, were waiting up for
him over a bowl of punch, which they cordially invited him to share.
It was a bitterly cold night, and the fragrant steam overpowered any
suspicions which the young Englishman may have entertained, so he
drained off a bumper, and then, retiring to his bedroom, threw himself
upon his bed without undressing, and fell straight into a dreamless
slumber, in which he still lay when the three conspirators crept into
his chamber, and, having opened his boxes, began to investigate his
effects.

It may have been that the speedy action of the drug caused its effect to
be evanescent, or, perhaps, that the strong constitution of the victim
threw it off with unusual rapidity. Whatever the cause, it is certain
that John Huxford suddenly came to himself, and found the foul trio
squatted round their booty, which they were dividing into the two
categories of what was of value and should be taken, and what was
valueless and might therefore be left. With a bound he sprang out of
bed, and seizing the fellow nearest him by the collar, he slung him
through the open doorway. His brother rushed at him, but the young
Devonshire man met him with such a facer that he dropped in a heap
upon the ground. Unfortunately, the violence of the blow caused him to
overbalance himself, and, tripping over his prostrate antagonist, he
came down heavily upon his face. Before he could rise, the old hag
sprang upon his back and clung to him, shrieking to her son to bring the
poker. John managed to shake himself clear of them both, but before he
could stand on his guard he was felled from behind by a crashing blow
from an iron bar, which stretched him senseless upon the floor.

"You've hit too hard, Joe," said the old woman, looking down at the
prostrate figure. "I heard the bone go."

"If I hadn't fetched him down he'd ha' been too many for us," said the
young villain sulkily.

"Still, you might ha' done it without killing him, clumsy," said his
mother. She had had a large experience of such scenes, and knew the
difference between a stunning blow and a fatal one.

"He's still breathing," the other said, examining him; "the back o' his
head's like a bag o' dice though. The skull's all splintered. He can't
last. What are we to do?"

"He'll never come to himself again," the other brother remarked. "Sarve
him right. Look at my face! Let's see, mother; who's in the house?"

"Only four drunk sailors."

"They wouldn't turn out for any noise. It's all quiet in the street.
Let's carry him down a bit, Joe, and leave him there. He can die there,
and no one think the worse of us."

"Take all the papers out of his pocket, then," the mother suggested;
"they might help the police to trace him. His watch, too, and his
money--L3 odd; better than nothing. Now carry him softly and don't
slip."

Kicking off their shoes, the two brothers carried the dying man down
stairs and along the deserted street for a couple of hundred yards.
There they laid him among the snow, where he was found by the night
patrol, who carried him on a shutter to the hospital. He was duly
examined by the resident surgeon, who bound up the wounded head, but
gave it as his opinion that the man could not possibly live for more
than twelve hours.

Twelve hours passed, however, and yet another twelve, but John Huxford
still struggled hard for his life. When at the end of three days he was
found to be still breathing, the interest of the doctors became aroused
at his extraordinary vitality, and they bled him, as the fashion was in
those days, and surrounded his shattered head with icebags. It may have
been on account of these measures, or it may have been in spite of
them, but at the end of a week's deep trance the nurse in charge was
astonished to hear a gabbling noise, and to find the stranger sitting up
upon the couch and staring about him with wistful, wondering eyes.
The surgeons were summoned to behold the phenomenon, and warmly
congratulated each other upon the success of their treatment.

"You have been on the brink of the grave, my man," said one of them,
pressing the bandaged head back on to the pillow; "you must not excite
yourself. What is your name?"

No answer, save a wild stare.

"Where do you come from?"

Again no answer.

"He is mad," one suggested. "Or a foreigner," said another. "There were
no papers on him when he came in. His linen is marked 'J. H.' Let us try
him in French and German."

They tested him with as many tongues as they could muster among them,
but were compelled at last to give the matter over and to leave their
silent patient, still staring up wild-eyed at the whitewashed hospital
ceiling.

For many weeks John lay in the hospital, and for many weeks efforts were
made to gain some clue as to his antecedents, but in vain. He showed,
as the time rolled by, not only by his demeanour, but also by the
intelligence with which he began to pick up fragments of sentences, like
a clever child learning to talk, that his mind was strong enough in the
present, though it was a complete blank as to the past. The man's memory
of his whole life before the fatal blow was entirely and absolutely
erased. He neither knew his name, his language, his home, his business,
nor anything else. The doctors held learned consultations upon him,
and discoursed upon the centre of memory and depressed tables, deranged
nerve-cells and cerebral congestions, but all their polysyllables began
and ended at the fact that the man's memory was gone, and that it was
beyond the power of science to restore it. During the weary months of
his convalescence he picked up reading and writing, but with the return
of his strength came no return of his former life. England, Devonshire,
Brisport, Mary, Granny--the words brought no recollection to his mind.
All was absolute darkness. At last he was discharged, a friendless,
tradeless, penniless man, without a past, and with very little to look
to in the future. His very name was altered, for it had been necessary
to invent one. John Huxford had passed away, and John Hardy took his
place among mankind. Here was a strange outcome of a Spanish gentleman's
tobacco-inspired meditations.

John's case had aroused some discussion and curiosity in Quebec, so that
he was not suffered to drift into utter helplessness upon emerging from
the hospital. A Scotch manufacturer named M'Kinlay found him a post
as porter in his establishment, and for a long time he worked at seven
dollars a week at the loading and unloading of vans. In the course of
years it was noticed, however, that his memory, however defective as
to the past, was extremely reliable and accurate when concerned with
anything which had occurred since his accident. From the factory he was
promoted into the counting-house, and the year 1835 found him a junior
clerk at a salary of L120 a year. Steadily and surely John Hardy fought
his way upward from post to post, with his whole heart and mind devoted
to the business. In 1840 he was third clerk, in 1845 he was second, and
in 1852 he became manager of the whole vast establishment, and second
only to Mr. M'Kinlay himself.

There were few who grudged John this rapid advancement, for it was
obviously due to neither chance nor favouritism, but entirely to his
marvellous powers of application and industry. From early morning until
late in the night he laboured hard in the service of his employer,
checking, overlooking, superintending, setting an example to all of
cheerful devotion to duty. As he rose from one post to another his
salary increased, but it caused no alteration in his mode of living,
save that it enabled him to be more open-handed to the poor. He
signalised his promotion to the managership by a donation of L1000 to
the hospital in which he had been treated a quarter of a century before.
The remainder of his earnings he allowed to accumulate in the business,
drawing a small sum quarterly for his sustenance, and still residing
in the humble dwelling which he had occupied when he was a warehouse
porter. In spite of his success he was a sad, silent, morose man,
solitary in his habits, and possessed always of a vague undefined
yearning, a dull feeling of dissatisfaction and of craving which never
abandoned him. Often he would strive with his poor crippled brain to
pierce the curtain which divided him from the past, and to solve the
enigma of his youthful existence, but though he sat many a time by the
fire until his head throbbed with his efforts, John Hardy could never
recall the least glimpse of John Huxford's history.

On one occasion he had, in the interests of the firm, to journey to
Quebec, and to visit the very cork factory which had tempted him to
leave England. Strolling through the workroom with the foreman, John
automatically, and without knowing what he was doing, picked up a square
piece of the bark, and fashioned it with two or three deft cuts of his
penknife into a smooth tapering cork. His companion picked it out of his
hand and examined it with the eye of an expert. "This is not the first
cork which you have cut by many a hundred, Mr. Hardy," he remarked.
"Indeed you are wrong," John answered, smiling; "I never cut one before
in my life." "Impossible!" cried the foreman. "Here's another bit of
cork. Try again." John did his best to repeat the performance, but
the brains of the manager interfered with the trained muscles of the
corkcutter. The latter had not forgotten their cunning, but they needed
to be left to themselves, and not directed by a mind which knew nothing
of the matter. Instead of the smooth graceful shape, he could produce
nothing but rough-hewn clumsy cylinders. "It must have been chance,"
said the foreman, "but I could have sworn that it was the work of an old
hand!"

As the years passed John's smooth English skin had warped and crinkled
until he was as brown and as seamed as a walnut. His hair, too, after
many years of iron-grey, had finally become as white as the winters of
his adopted country. Yet he was a hale and upright old man, and when he
at last retired from the manager-ship of the firm with which he had been
so long connected, he bore the weight of his seventy years lightly and
bravely. He was in the peculiar position himself of not knowing his own
age, as it was impossible for him to do more than guess at how old he
was at the time of his accident.

The Franco-German War came round, and while the two great rivals were
destroying each other, their more peaceful neighbours were quietly
ousting them out of their markets and their commerce. Many English ports
benefited by this condition of things, but none more than Brisport.
It had long ceased to be a fishing village, but was now a large and
prosperous town, with a great breakwater in place of the quay on which
Mary had stood, and a frontage of terraces and grand hotels where
all the grandees of the west country came when they were in need of
a change. All these extensions had made Brisport the centre of a busy
trade, and her ships found their way into every harbour in the world.
Hence it was no wonder, especially in that very busy year of 1870,
that several Brisport vessels were lying in the river and alongside the
wharves of Quebec.

One day John Hardy, who found time hang a little on his hands since his
retirement from business, strolled along by the water's edge listening
to the clanking of the steam winches, and watching the great barrels
and cases as they were swung ashore and piled upon the wharf. He had
observed the coming in of a great ocean steamer, and having waited until
she was safely moored, he was turning away, when a few words fell upon
his ear uttered by some one on board a little weather-beaten barque
close by him. It was only some commonplace order that was bawled out,
but the sound fell upon the old man's ears with a strange mixture of
disuse and familiarity. He stood by the vessel and heard the seamen at
their work, all speaking with the same broad, pleasant jingling accent.
Why did it send such a thrill through his nerves to listen to it? He sat
down upon a coil of rope and pressed his hands to his temples, drinking
in the long-forgotten dialect, and trying to piece together in his mind
the thousand half-formed nebulous recollections which were surging up in
it. Then he rose, and walking along to the stern he read the name of
the ship, The Sunlight, Brisport. Brisport! Again that flush and tingle
through every nerve. Why was that word and the men's speech so familiar
to him? He walked moodily home, and all night he lay tossing and
sleepless, pursuing a shadowy something which was ever within his reach,
and yet which ever evaded him.

Early next morning he was up and down on the wharf listening to the
talk of the west-country sailors. Every word they spoke seemed to him to
revive his memory and bring him nearer to the light. From time to time
they paused in their work, and seeing the white-haired stranger sitting
so silently and attentively, they laughed at him and broke little jests
upon him. And even these jests had a familiar sound to the exile, as
they very well might, seeing that they were the same which he had heard
in his youth, for no one ever makes a new joke in England. So he sat
through the long day, bathing himself in the west-country speech, and
waiting for the light to break.

And it happened that when the sailors broke off for their mid-day meal,
one of them, either out of curiosity or good nature, came over to the
old watcher and greeted him. So John asked him to be seated on a log by
his side, and began to put many questions to him about the country from
which he came, and the town. All which the man answered glibly enough,
for there is nothing in the world that a sailor loves to talk of so much
as of his native place, for it pleases him to show that he is no mere
wanderer, but that he has a home to receive him whenever he shall choose
to settle down to a quiet life. So the seaman prattled away about the
Town Hall and the Martello Tower, and the Esplanade, and Pitt Street and
the High Street, until his companion suddenly shot out a long eager arm
and caught him by the wrist. "Look here, man," he said, in a low quick
whisper. "Answer me truly as you hope for mercy. Are not the streets
that run out of the High Street, Fox Street, Caroline Street, and George
Street, in the order named?" "They are," the sailor answered, shrinking
away from the wild flashing eyes. And at that moment John's memory came
back to him, and he saw clear and distinct his life as it had been and
as it should have been, with every minutest detail traced as in letters
of fire. Too stricken to cry out, too stricken to weep, he could only
hurry away homewards wildly and aimlessly; hurry as fast as his aged
limbs would carry him, as if, poor soul! there were some chance yet of
catching up the fifty years which had gone by. Staggering and tremulous
he hastened on until a film seemed to gather over his eyes, and throwing
his arms into the air with a great cry, "Oh, Mary, Mary! Oh, my lost,
lost life!" he fell senseless upon the pavement.

The storm of emotion which had passed through him, and the mental shock
which he had undergone, would have sent many a man into a raging fever,
but John was too strong-willed and too practical to allow his strength
to be wasted at the very time when he needed it most. Within a few days
he realised a portion of his property, and starting for New York, caught
the first mail steamer to England. Day and night, night and day, he
trod the quarter-deck, until the hardy sailors watched the old man with
astonishment, and marvelled how any human being could do so much upon
so little sleep. It was only by this unceasing exercise, by wearing
down his vitality until fatigue brought lethargy, that he could prevent
himself from falling into a very frenzy of despair. He hardly dared ask
himself what was the object of this wild journey? What did he expect?
Would Mary be still alive? She must be a very old woman. If he could but
see her and mingle his tears with hers he would be content. Let her
only know that it had been no fault of his, and that they had both been
victims to the same cruel fate. The cottage was her own, and she had
said that she would wait for him there until she heard from him. Poor
lass, she had never reckoned on such a wait as this.

At last the Irish lights were sighted and passed, Land's End lay like
a blue fog upon the water, and the great steamer ploughed its way along
the bold Cornish coast until it dropped its anchor in Plymouth Bay. John
hurried to the railway station, and within a few hours he found
himself back once more in his native town, which he had quitted a poor
corkcutter, half a century before.

But was it the same town? Were it not for the name engraved all over
the station and on the hotels, John might have found a difficulty in
believing it. The broad, well-paved streets, with the tram lines laid
down the centre, were very different from the narrow winding lanes which
he could remember. The spot upon which the station had been built was
now the very centre of the town, but in the old days it would have been
far out in the fields. In every direction, lines of luxurious villas
branched away in streets and crescents bearing names which were new
to the exile. Great warehouses, and long rows of shops with glittering
fronts, showed him how enormously Brisport had increased in wealth as
well as in dimensions. It was only when he came upon the old High Street
that John began to feel at home. It was much altered, but still it was
recognisable, and some few of the buildings were just as he had left
them. There was the place where Fairbairn's cork works had been. It was
now occupied by a great brand-new hotel. And there was the old grey Town
Hall. The wanderer turned down beside it, and made his way with eager
steps but a sinking heart in the direction of the line of cottages which
he used to know so well.

It was not difficult for him to find where they had been. The sea at
least was as of old, and from it he could tell where the cottages
had stood. But alas, where were they now! In their place an imposing
crescent of high stone houses reared their tall front to the beach. John
walked wearily down past their palatial entrances, feeling heart-sore
and despairing, when suddenly a thrill shot through him, followed by a
warm glow of excitement and of hope, for, standing a little back from
the line, and looking as much out of place as a bumpkin in a ballroom,
was an old whitewashed cottage, with wooden porch and walls bright with
creeping plants. He rubbed his eyes and stared again, but there it stood
with its diamond-paned windows and white muslin curtains, the very same
down to the smallest details, as it had been on the day when he last saw
it. Brown hair had become white, and fishing hamlets had changed into
cities, but busy hands and a faithful heart had kept granny's cottage
unchanged and ready for the wanderer.

And now, when he had reached his very haven of rest, John Huxford's
mind became more filled with apprehension than ever, and he came over so
deadly sick, that he had to sit down upon one of the beach benches
which faced the cottage. An old fisherman was perched at one end of it,
smoking his black clay pipe, and he remarked upon the wan face and sad
eyes of the stranger.

"You have overtired yourself," he said. "It doesn't do for old chaps
like you and me to forget our years."

"I'm better now, thank you," John answered. "Can you tell me, friend,
how that one cottage came among all those fine houses?"

"Why," said the old fellow, thumping his crutch energetically upon
the ground, "that cottage belongs to the most obstinate woman in all
England. That woman, if you'll believe me, has been offered the price
of the cottage ten times over, and yet she won't part with it. They have
even promised to remove it stone by stone, and put it up on some more
convenient place, and pay her a good round sum into the bargain, but,
God bless you! she wouldn't so much as hear of it."

"And why was that?" asked John.

"Well, that's just the funny part of it. It's all on account of a
mistake. You see her spark went away when I was a youngster, and she's
got it into her head that he may come back some day, and that he won't
know where to go unless the cottage is there. Why, if the fellow were
alive he would be as old as you, but I've no doubt he's dead long ago.
She's well quit of him, for he must have been a scamp to abandon her as
he did."

"Oh, he abandoned her, did he?"

"Yes--went off to the States, and never so much as sent a word to
bid her good-bye. It was a cruel shame, it was, for the girl has been
a-waiting and a-pining for him ever since. It's my belief that it's
fifty years' weeping that blinded her."

"She is blind!" cried John, half rising to his feet.

"Worse than that," said the fisherman. "She's mortal ill, and not
expected to live. Why, look ye, there's the doctor's carriage a-waiting
at her door."

At this evil tidings old John sprang up and hurried over to the cottage,
where he met the physician returning to his brougham.

"How is your patient, doctor?" he asked in a trembling voice.

"Very bad, very bad," said the man of medicine pompously. "If she
continues to sink she will be in great danger; but if, on the other
hand, she takes a turn, it is possible that she may recover," with which
oracular answer he drove away in a cloud of dust.

John Huxford was still hesitating at the doorway, not knowing how to
announce himself, or how far a shock might be dangerous to the sufferer,
when a gentleman in black came bustling up.

"Can you tell me, my man, if this is where the sick woman is?" he asked.

John nodded, and the clergyman passed in, leaving the door half open.
The wanderer waited until he had gone into the inner room, and then
slipped into the front parlour, where he had spent so many happy hours.
All was the same as ever, down to the smallest ornaments, for Mary had
been in the habit whenever anything was broken of replacing it with
a duplicate, so that there might be no change in the room. He stood
irresolute, looking about him, until he heard a woman's voice from the
inner chamber, and stealing to the door he peeped in.

The invalid was reclining upon a couch, propped up with pillows, and her
face was turned full towards John as he looked round the door. He could
have cried out as his eyes rested upon it, for there were Mary's pale,
plain, sweet homely features as smooth and as unchanged as though she
were still the half child, half woman, whom he had pressed to his heart
on the Brisport quay. Her calm, eventless, unselfish life had left none
of those rude traces upon her countenance which are the outward emblems
of internal conflict and an unquiet soul. A chaste melancholy had
refined and softened her expression, and her loss of sight had been
compensated for by that placidity which comes upon the faces of the
blind. With her silvery hair peeping out beneath her snow-white cap, and
a bright smile upon her sympathetic face, she was the old Mary improved
and developed, with something ethereal and angelic superadded.

"You will keep a tenant in the cottage," she was saying to the
clergyman, who sat with his back turned to the observer. "Choose some
poor deserving folk in the parish who will be glad of a home free. And
when he comes you will tell him that I have waited for him until I have
been forced to go on, but that he will find me on the other side still
faithful and true. There's a little money too--only a few pounds--but I
should like him to have it when he comes, for he may need it, and then
you will tell the folk you put in to be kind to him, for he will be
grieved, poor lad, and to tell him that I was cheerful and happy up to
the end. Don't let him know that I ever fretted, or he may fret too."

Now John listened quietly to all this from behind the door, and more
than once he had to put his hand to his throat, but when she had
finished, and when he thought of her long, blameless, innocent life, and
saw the dear face looking straight at him, and yet unable to see him, it
became too much for his manhood, and he burst out into an irrepressible
choking sob which shook his very frame. And then occurred a strange
thing, for though he had spoken no word, the old woman stretched out her
arms to him, and cried, "Oh, Johnny, Johnny! Oh dear, dear Johnny,
you have come back to me again," and before the parson could at all
understand what had happened, those two faithful lovers were in each
other's arms, weeping over each other, and patting each other's silvery
heads, with their hearts so full of joy that it almost compensated for
all that weary fifty years of waiting.

It is hard to say how long they rejoiced together. It seemed a very
short time to them and a very long one to the reverend gentleman,
who was thinking at last of stealing away, when Mary recollected his
presence and the courtesy which was due to him. "My heart is full of
joy, sir," she said; "it is God's will that I should not see my Johnny,
but I can call his image up as clear as if I had my eyes. Now stand up,
John, and I will let the gentleman see how well I remember you. He is as
tall, sir, as the second shelf, as straight as an arrow, his face brown,
and his eyes bright and clear. His hair is well-nigh black, and his
moustache the same--I shouldn't wonder if he had whiskers as well by
this time. Now, sir, don't you think I can do without my sight?" The
clergyman listened to her description, and looking at the battered,
white-haired man before him, he hardly knew whether to laugh or to cry.

But it all proved to be a laughing matter in the end, for, whether it
was that her illness had taken some natural turn, or that John's return
had startled it away, it is certain that from that day Mary steadily
improved until she was as well as ever. "No special license for me,"
John had said sturdily. "It looks as if we were ashamed of what we are
doing, as though we hadn't the best right to be married of any two folk
in the parish." So the banns were put up accordingly, and three times
it was announced that John Huxford, bachelor, was going to be united
to Mary Howden, spinster, after which, no one objecting, they were duly
married accordingly. "We may not have very long in this world," said old
John, "but at least we shall start fair and square in the next."

John's share in the Quebec business was sold out, and gave rise to a
very interesting legal question as to whether, knowing that his name
was Huxford, he could still sign that of Hardy, as was necessary for
the completion of the business. It was decided, however, that on his
producing two trustworthy witnesses to his identity all would be right,
so the property was duly realised and produced a very handsome fortune.
Part of this John devoted to building a pretty villa just outside
Brisport, and the heart of the proprietor of Beach Terrace leaped within
him when he learned that the cottage was at last to be abandoned, and
that it would no longer break the symmetry and impair the effect of his
row of aristocratic mansions.

And there in their snug new home, sitting out on the lawn in the
summer-time, and on either side of the fire in the winter, that worthy
old couple continued for many years to live as innocently and as happily
as two children. Those who knew them well say that there was never a
shadow between them, and that the love which burned in their aged hearts
was as high and as holy as that of any young couple who ever went to the
altar. And through all the country round, if ever man or woman were in
distress and fighting against hard times, they had only to go up to the
villa to receive help, and that sympathy which is more precious than
help. So when at last John and Mary fell asleep in their ripe old age,
within a few hours of each other, they had all the poor and the needy
and the friendless of the parish among their mourners, and in talking
over the troubles which these two had faced so bravely, they learned
that their own miseries also were but passing things, and that faith and
truth can never miscarry, either in this existence or the next.




CYPRIAN OVERBECK WELLS--A LITERARY MOSAIC.

From my boyhood I have had an intense and overwhelming conviction that
my real vocation lay in the direction of literature. I have, however,
had a most unaccountable difficulty in getting any responsible person
to share my views. It is true that private friends have sometimes, after
listening to my effusions, gone the length of remarking, "Really, Smith,
that's not half bad!" or, "You take my advice, old boy, and send that
to some magazine!" but I have never on these occasions had the moral
courage to inform my adviser that the article in question had been sent
to well-nigh every publisher in London, and had come back again with a
rapidity and precision which spoke well for the efficiency of our postal
arrangements.

Had my manuscripts been paper boomerangs they could not have returned
with greater accuracy to their unhappy dispatcher. Oh, the vileness
and utter degradation of the moment when the stale little cylinder of
closely written pages, which seemed so fresh and full of promise a
few days ago, is handed in by a remorseless postman! And what moral
depravity shines through the editor's ridiculous plea of "want of
space!" But the subject is a painful one, and a digression from the
plain statement of facts which I originally contemplated.

From the age of seventeen to that of three-and-twenty I was a literary
volcano in a constant state of eruption. Poems and tales, articles and
reviews, nothing came amiss to my pen. From the great sea-serpent to the
nebular hypothesis, I was ready to write on anything or everything, and
I can safely say that I seldom handled a subject without throwing new
lights upon it. Poetry and romance, however, had always the greatest
attractions for me. How I have wept over the pathos of my heroines, and
laughed at the comicalities of my buffoons! Alas! I could find no one
to join me in my appreciation, and solitary admiration for one's self,
however genuine, becomes satiating after a time. My father remonstrated
with me too on the score of expense and loss of time, so that I was
finally compelled to relinquish my dreams of literary independence and
to become a clerk in a wholesale mercantile firm connected with the West
African trade.

Even when condemned to the prosaic duties which fell to my lot in the
office, I continued faithful to my first love. I have introduced pieces
of word-painting into the most commonplace business letters which have,
I am told, considerably astonished the recipients. My refined sarcasm
has made defaulting creditors writhe and wince. Occasionally, like the
great Silas Wegg, I would drop into poetry, and so raise the whole tone
of the correspondence. Thus what could be more elegant than my rendering
of the firm's instructions to the captain of one of their vessels. It
ran in this way:--

            "From England, Captain, you must steer a
            Course directly to Madeira,
            Land the casks of salted beef,
            Then away to Teneriffe.
            Pray be careful, cool, and wary
            With the merchants of Canary.
            When you leave them make the most
            Of the trade winds to the coast.
            Down it you shall sail as far
            As the land of Calabar,
            And from there you'll onward go
            To Bonny and Fernando Po"----


and so on for four pages. The captain, instead of treasuring up this
little gem, called at the office next day, and demanded with quite
unnecessary warmth what the thing meant, and I was compelled to
translate it all back into prose. On this, as on other similar
occasions, my employer took me severely to task--for he was, you see, a
man entirely devoid of all pretensions to literary taste!

All this, however, is a mere preamble, and leads up to the fact that
after ten years or so of drudgery I inherited a legacy which, though
small, was sufficient to satisfy my simple wants. Finding myself
independent, I rented a quiet house removed from the uproar and bustle
of London, and there I settled down with the intention of producing some
great work which should single me out from the family of the Smiths,
and render my name immortal. To this end I laid in several quires of
foolscap, a box of quill pens, and a sixpenny bottle of ink, and having
given my housekeeper injunctions to deny me to all visitors, I proceeded
to look round for a suitable subject.

I was looking round for some weeks. At the end of that time I found that
I had by constant nibbling devoured a large number of the quills, and
had spread the ink out to such advantage, what with blots, spills, and
abortive commencements, that there appeared to be some everywhere except
in the bottle. As to the story itself, however, the facility of my youth
had deserted me completely, and my mind remained a complete blank; nor
could I, do what I would, excite my sterile imagination to conjure up a
single incident or character.

In this strait I determined to devote my leisure to running rapidly
through the works of the leading English novelists, from Daniel Defoe
to the present day, in the hope of stimulating my latent ideas and of
getting a good grasp of the general tendency of literature. For some
time past I had avoided opening any work of fiction because one of the
greatest faults of my youth had been that I invariably and unconsciously
mimicked the style of the last author whom I had happened to read.
Now, however, I made up my mind to seek safety in a multitude, and by
consulting ALL the English classics to avoid?? the danger of imitating
any one too closely. I had just accomplished the task of reading through
the majority of the standard novels at the time when my narrative
commences.

It was, then, about twenty minutes to ten on the night of the fourth of
June, eighteen hundred and eighty-six, that, after disposing of a
pint of beer and a Welsh rarebit for my supper, I seated myself in
my arm-chair, cocked my feet upon a stool, and lit my pipe, as was my
custom. Both my pulse and my temperature were, as far as I know, normal
at the time. I would give the state of the barometer, but that
unlucky instrument had experienced an unprecedented fall of forty-two
inches--from a nail to the ground--and was not in a reliable condition.
We live in a scientific age, and I flatter myself that I move with the
times.

Whilst in that comfortable lethargic condition which accompanies both
digestion and poisoning by nicotine, I suddenly became aware of the
extraordinary fact that my little drawing-room had elongated into a
great salon, and that my humble table had increased in proportion. Round
this colossal mahogany were seated a great number of people who were
talking earnestly together, and the surface in front of them was strewn
with books and pamphlets. I could not help observing that these persons
were dressed in a most extraordinary mixture of costumes, for those at
the end nearest to me wore peruke wigs, swords, and all the fashions of
two centuries back; those about the centre had tight knee-breeches, high
cravats, and heavy bunches of seals; while among those at the far side
the majority were dressed in the most modern style, and among them
I saw, to my surprise, several eminent men of letters whom I had the
honour of knowing. There were two or three women in the company. I
should have risen to my feet to greet these unexpected guests, but all
power of motion appeared to have deserted me, and I could only lie still
and listen to their conversation, which I soon perceived to be all about
myself.

"Egad!" exclaimed a rough, weather-beaten man, who was smoking a long
churchwarden pipe at my end of the table, "my heart softens for him.
Why, gossips, we've been in the same straits ourselves. Gadzooks, never
did mother feel more concern for her eldest born than I when Rory Random
went out to make his own way in the world."

"Right, Tobias, right!" cried another man, seated at my very elbow.

"By my troth, I lost more flesh over poor Robin on his island, than had
I the sweating sickness twice told. The tale was well-nigh done when in
swaggers my Lord of Rochester--a merry gallant, and one whose word in
matters literary might make or mar. 'How now, Defoe,' quoth he, 'hast a
tale on hand?' 'Even so, your lordship,' I returned. 'A right merry one,
I trust,' quoth he. 'Discourse unto me concerning thy heroine, a comely
lass, Dan, or I mistake.' 'Nay,' I replied, 'there is no heroine in the
matter.' 'Split not your phrases,' quoth he; 'thou weighest every word
like a scald attorney. Speak to me of thy principal female character,
be she heroine or no.' 'My lord,' I answered, 'there is no female
character.' 'Then out upon thyself and thy book too!' he cried. 'Thou
hadst best burn it!'--and so out in great dudgeon, whilst I fell to
mourning over my poor romance, which was thus, as it were, sentenced to
death before its birth. Yet there are a thousand now who have read of
Robin and his man Friday, to one who has heard of my Lord of Rochester."

"Very true, Defoe," said a genial-looking man in a red waistcoat, who
was sitting at the modern end of the table. "But all this won't help our
good friend Smith in making a start at his story, which, I believe, was
the reason why we assembled."

"The Dickens it is!" stammered a little man beside him, and everybody
laughed, especially the genial man, who cried out, "Charley Lamb,
Charley Lamb, you'll never alter. You would make a pun if you were
hanged for it."

"That would be a case of haltering," returned the other, on which
everybody laughed again.

By this time I had begun to dimly realise in my confused brain the
enormous honour which had been done me. The greatest masters of fiction
in every age of English letters had apparently made a rendezvous beneath
my roof, in order to assist me in my difficulties. There were many faces
at the table whom I was unable to identify; but when I looked hard
at others I often found them to be very familiar to me, whether from
paintings or from mere description. Thus between the first two speakers,
who had betrayed themselves as Defoe and Smollett, there sat a dark,
saturnine corpulent old man, with harsh prominent features, who I was
sure could be none other than the famous author of Gulliver. There were
several others of whom I was not so sure, sitting at the other side of
the table, but I conjecture that both Fielding and Richardson were among
them, and I could swear to the lantern-jaws and cadaverous visage of
Lawrence Sterne. Higher up I could see among the crowd the high forehead
of Sir Walter Scott, the masculine features of George Eliott, and the
flattened nose of Thackeray; while amongst the living I recognised James
Payn, Walter Besant, the lady known as "Ouida," Robert Louis Stevenson,
and several of lesser note. Never before, probably, had such an
assemblage of choice spirits gathered under one roof.

"Well," said Sir Walter Scott, speaking with a pronounced accent, "ye
ken the auld proverb, sirs, 'Ower mony cooks,' or as the Border minstrel
sang--

        'Black Johnstone wi' his troopers ten
            Might mak' the heart turn cauld,
        But Johnstone when he's a' alane
            Is waur ten thoosand fauld.'

The Johnstones were one of the Redesdale families, second cousins of the
Armstrongs, and connected by marriage to----"

"Perhaps, Sir Walter," interrupted Thackeray, "you would take the
responsibility off our hands by yourself dictating the commencement of a
story to this young literary aspirant."

"Na, na!" cried Sir Walter; "I'll do my share, but there's Chairlie over
there as full o' wut as a Radical's full o' treason. He's the laddie to
give a cheery opening to it."

Dickens was shaking his head, and apparently about to refuse the honour,
when a voice from among the moderns--I could not see who it was for the
crowd--said:

"Suppose we begin at the end of the table and work round, any one
contributing a little as the fancy seizes him?"

"Agreed! agreed!" cried the whole company; and every eye was turned
on Defoe, who seemed very uneasy, and filled his pipe from a great
tobacco-box in front of him.

"Nay, gossips," he said, "there are others more worthy----" But he
was interrupted by loud cries of "No! no!" from the whole table; and
Smollett shouted out, "Stand to it, Dan--stand to it! You and I and the
Dean here will make three short tacks just to fetch her out of harbour,
and then she may drift where she pleases." Thus encouraged, Defoe
cleared his throat, and began in this way, talking between the puffs of
his pipe:--

"My father was a well-to-do yeoman of Cheshire, named Cyprian Overbeck,
but, marrying about the year 1617, he assumed the name of his wife's
family, which was Wells; and thus I, their eldest son, was named Cyprian
Overbeck Wells. The farm was a very fertile one, and contained some of
the best grazing land in those parts, so that my father was enabled to
lay by money to the extent of a thousand crowns, which he laid out in an
adventure to the Indies with such surprising success that in less than
three years it had increased fourfold. Thus encouraged, he bought a
part share of the trader, and, fitting her out once more with such
commodities as were most in demand (viz., old muskets, hangers and
axes, besides glasses, needles, and the like), he placed me on board
as supercargo to look after his interests, and despatched us upon our
voyage.

"We had a fair wind as far as Cape de Verde, and there, getting into
the north-west trade-winds, made good progress down the African coast.
Beyond sighting a Barbary rover once, whereat our mariners were in sad
distress, counting themselves already as little better than slaves, we
had good luck until we had come within a hundred leagues of the Cape
of Good Hope, when the wind veered round to the southward and blew
exceeding hard, while the sea rose to such a height that the end of the
mainyard dipped into the water, and I heard the master say that though
he had been at sea for five-and-thirty years he had never seen the like
of it, and that he had little expectation of riding through it. On this
I fell to wringing my hands and bewailing myself, until the mast going
by the board with a crash, I thought that the ship had struck, and
swooned with terror, falling into the scuppers and lying like one
dead, which was the saving of me, as will appear in the sequel. For the
mariners, giving up all hope of saving the ship, and being in momentary
expectation that she would founder, pushed off in the long-boat, whereby
I fear that they met the fate which they hoped to avoid, since I
have never from that day heard anything of them. For my own part, on
recovering from the swoon into which I had fallen, I found that, by the
mercy of Providence, the sea had gone down, and that I was alone in the
vessel. At which last discovery I was so terror-struck that I could but
stand wringing my hands and bewailing my sad fate, until at last taking
heart, I fell to comparing my lot with that of my unhappy camerados, on
which I became more cheerful, and descending to the cabin, made a meal
off such dainties as were in the captain's locker."

Having got so far, Defoe remarked that he thought he had given them
a fair start, and handed over the story to Dean Swift, who, after
premising that he feared he would find himself as much at sea as Master
Cyprian Overbeck Wells, continued in this way:--

"For two days I drifted about in great distress, fearing that there
should be a return of the gale, and keeping an eager look-out for my
late companions. Upon the third day, towards evening, I observed to
my extreme surprise that the ship was under the influence of a very
powerful current, which ran to the north-east with such violence that
she was carried, now bows on, now stern on, and occasionally drifting
sideways like a crab, at a rate which I cannot compute at less than
twelve or fifteen knots an hour. For several weeks I was borne away in
this manner, until one morning, to my inexpressible joy, I sighted an
island upon the starboard quarter. The current would, however, have
carried me past it had I not made shift, though single-handed, to
set the flying-jib so as to turn her bows, and then clapping on the
sprit-sail, studding-sail, and fore-sail, I clewed up the halliards upon
the port side, and put the wheel down hard a-starboard, the wind being
at the time north-east-half-east."

At the description of this nautical manoeuvre I observed that Smollett
grinned, and a gentleman who was sitting higher up the table in the
uniform of the Royal Navy, and who I guessed to be Captain Marryat,
became very uneasy and fidgeted in his seat.

"By this means I got clear of the current and was able to steer within
a quarter of a mile of the beach, which indeed I might have approached
still nearer by making another tack, but being an excellent swimmer, I
deemed it best to leave the vessel, which was almost waterlogged, and to
make the best of my way to the shore.

"I had had my doubts hitherto as to whether this new-found country was
inhabited or no, but as I approached nearer to it, being on the summit
of a great wave, I perceived a number of figures on the beach,
engaged apparently in watching me and my vessel. My joy, however, was
considerably lessened when on reaching the land I found that the figures
consisted of a vast concourse of animals of various sorts who were
standing about in groups, and who hurried down to the water's edge to
meet me. I had scarce put my foot upon the sand before I was surrounded
by an eager crowd of deer, dogs, wild boars, buffaloes, and other
creatures, none of whom showed the least fear either of me or of each
other, but, on the contrary, were animated by a common feeling of
curiosity, as well as, it would appear, by some degree of disgust."

"A second edition," whispered Lawrence Sterne to his neighbour;
"Gulliver served up cold."

"Did you speak, sir?" asked the Dean very sternly, having evidently
overheard the remark.

"My words were not addressed to you, sir," answered Sterne, looking
rather frightened.

"They were none the less insolent," roared the Dean. "Your reverence
would fain make a Sentimental Journey of the narrative, I doubt not, and
find pathos in a dead donkey--though faith, no man can blame thee for
mourning over thy own kith and kin."

"Better that than to wallow in all the filth of Yahoo-land," returned
Sterne warmly, and a quarrel would certainly have ensued but for the
interposition of the remainder of the company. As it was, the Dean
refused indignantly to have any further hand in the story, and Sterne
also stood out of it, remarking with a sneer that he was loth to fit a
good blade on to a poor handle. Under these circumstances some further
unpleasantness might have occurred had not Smollett rapidly taken up the
narrative, continuing it in the third person instead of the first:--

"Our hero, being considerably alarmed at this strange reception, lost
little time in plunging into the sea again and regaining his vessel,
being convinced that the worst which might befall him from the elements
would be as nothing compared to the dangers of this mysterious island.
It was as well that he took this course, for before nightfall his ship
was overhauled and he himself picked up by a British man-of-war, the
Lightning, then returning from the West Indies, where it had formed part
of the fleet under the command of Admiral Benbow. Young Wells, being a
likely lad enough, well-spoken and high-spirited, was at once entered on
the books as officer's servant, in which capacity he both gained great
popularity on account of the freedom of his manners, and found an
opportunity for indulging in those practical pleasantries for which he
had all his life been famous.

"Among the quartermasters of the Lightning there was one named Jedediah
Anchorstock, whose appearance was so remarkable that it quickly
attracted the attention of our hero. He was a man of about fifty, dark
with exposure to the weather, and so tall that as he came along the
'tween decks he had to bend himself nearly double. The most striking
peculiarity of this individual was, however, that in his boyhood some
evil-minded person had tattooed eyes all over his countenance with such
marvellous skill that it was difficult at a short distance to pick out
his real ones among so many counterfeits. On this strange personage
Master Cyprian determined to exercise his talents for mischief, the more
so as he learned that he was extremely superstitious, and also that
he had left behind him in Portsmouth a strong-minded spouse of whom he
stood in mortal terror. With this object he secured one of the sheep
which were kept on board for the officers' table, and pouring a can of
rumbo down its throat, reduced it to a state of utter intoxication. He
then conveyed it to Anchorstock's berth, and with the assistance of some
other imps, as mischievous as himself, dressed it up in a high nightcap
and gown, and covered it over with the bedclothes.

"When the quartermaster came down from his watch our hero met him at
the door of his berth with an agitated face. 'Mr. Anchorstock,' said he,
'can it be that your wife is on board?' 'Wife!' roared the astonished
sailor. 'Ye white-faced swab, what d'ye mean?' 'If she's not here in the
ship it must be her ghost,' said Cyprian, shaking his head gloomily.
'In the ship! How in thunder could she get into the ship? Why, master,
I believe as how you're weak in the upper works, d'ye see? to as much
as think o' such a thing. My Poll is moored head and starn, behind the
point at Portsmouth, more'n two thousand mile away.' 'Upon my word,'
said our hero, very earnestly, 'I saw a female look out of your cabin
not five minutes ago.' 'Ay, ay, Mr. Anchorstock,' joined in several
of the conspirators. 'We all saw her--a spanking-looking craft with
a dead-light mounted on one side.' 'Sure enough,' said Anchorstock,
staggered by this accumulation of evidence, 'my Polly's starboard eye
was doused for ever by long Sue Williams of the Hard. But if so be as
she be there I must see her, be she ghost or quick;' with which the
honest sailor, in much perturbation and trembling in every limb, began
to shuffle forward into the cabin, holding the light well in front of
him. It chanced, however, that the unhappy sheep, which was quietly
engaged in sleeping off the effects of its unusual potations, was
awakened by the noise of this approach, and finding herself in such an
unusual position, sprang out of the bed and rushed furiously for the
door, bleating wildly, and rolling about like a brig in a tornado,
partly from intoxication and partly from the night-dress which impeded
her movements. As Anchorstock saw this extraordinary apparition bearing
down upon him, he uttered a yell and fell flat upon his face, convinced
that he had to do with a supernatural visitor, the more so as the
confederates heightened the effect by a chorus of most ghastly groans
and cries.

"The joke had nearly gone beyond what was originally intended, for
the quartermaster lay as one dead, and it was only with the greatest
difficulty that he could be brought to his senses. To the end of
the voyage he stoutly asserted that he had seen the distant Mrs.
Anchorstock, remarking with many oaths that though he was too woundily
scared to take much note of the features, there was no mistaking the
strong smell of rum which was characteristic of his better half.

"It chanced shortly after this to be the king's birthday, an event which
was signalised aboard the Lightening by the death of the commander under
singular circumstances. This officer, who was a real fair-weather
Jack, hardly knowing the ship's keel from her ensign, had obtained his
position through parliamentary interest, and used it with such tyranny
and cruelty that he was universally execrated. So unpopular was he that
when a plot was entered into by the whole crew to punish his misdeeds
with death, he had not a single friend among six hundred souls to warn
him of his danger. It was the custom on board the king's ships that upon
his birthday the entire ship's company should be drawn up upon deck,
and that at a signal they should discharge their muskets into the air
in honour of his Majesty. On this occasion word had been secretly passed
round for every man to slip a slug into his firelock, instead of the
blank cartridge provided. On the boatswain blowing his whistle the men
mustered upon deck and formed line, whilst the captain, standing well in
front of them, delivered a few words to them. 'When I give the word,' he
concluded, 'you shall discharge your pieces, and by thunder, if any man
is a second before or a second after his fellows I shall trice him up to
the weather rigging!' With these words he roared 'Fire!' on which every
man levelled his musket straight at his head and pulled the trigger.
So accurate was the aim and so short the distance, that more than five
hundred bullets struck him simultaneously, blowing away his head and a
large portion of his body. There were so many concerned in this matter,
and it was so hopeless to trace it to any individual, that the officers
were unable to punish any one for the affair--the more readily as the
captain's haughty ways and heartless conduct had made him quite as
hateful to them as to the men whom they commanded.

"By his pleasantries and the natural charm of his manners our hero so
far won the good wishes of the ship's company that they parted with
infinite regret upon their arrival in England. Filial duty, however,
urged him to return home and report himself to his father, with which
object he posted from Portsmouth to London, intending to proceed thence
to Shropshire. As it chanced, however, one of the horses sprained his
off foreleg while passing through Chichester, and as no change could
be obtained, Cyprian found himself compelled to put up at the Crown and
Bull for the night.

"Ods bodikins!" continued Smollett, laughing, "I never could pass a
comfortable hostel without stopping, and so, with your permission, I'll
e'en stop here, and whoever wills may lead friend Cyprian to his further
adventures. Do you, Sir Walter, give us a touch of the Wizard of the
North."

With these words Smollett produced a pipe, and filling it at Defoe's
tobacco-pot, waited patiently for the continuation of the story.

"If I must, I must," remarked the illustrious Scotchman, taking a pinch
of snuff; "but I must beg leave to put Mr. Wells back a few hundred
years, for of all things I love the true mediaeval smack. To proceed
then:--

"Our hero, being anxious to continue his journey, and learning that it
would be some time before any conveyance would be ready, determined
to push on alone mounted on his gallant grey steed. Travelling was
particularly dangerous at that time, for besides the usual perils which
beset wayfarers, the southern parts of England were in a lawless and
disturbed state which bordered on insurrection. The young man, however,
having loosened his sword in his sheath, so as to be ready for every
eventuality, galloped cheerily upon his way, guiding himself to the best
of his ability by the light of the rising moon.

"He had not gone far before he realised that the cautions which had been
impressed upon him by the landlord, and which he had been inclined to
look upon as self-interested advice, were only too well justified. At
a spot where the road was particularly rough, and ran across some marsh
land, he perceived a short distance from him a dark shadow, which his
practised eye detected at once as a body of crouching men. Reining up
his horse within a few yards of the ambuscade, he wrapped his cloak
round his bridle-arm and summoned the party to stand forth.

"'What ho, my masters!' he cried. 'Are beds so scarce, then, that ye
must hamper the high road of the king with your bodies? Now, by St.
Ursula of Alpuxerra, there be those who might think that birds who fly
o' nights were after higher game than the moorhen or the woodcock!'

"'Blades and targets, comrades!' exclaimed a tall powerful man,
springing into the centre of the road with several companions, and
standing in front of the frightened horse. 'Who is this swashbuckler
who summons his Majesty's lieges from their repose? A very soldado, o'
truth. Hark ye, sir, or my lord, or thy grace, or whatsoever title your
honour's honour may be pleased to approve, thou must curb thy tongue
play, or by the seven witches of Gambleside thou may find thyself in but
a sorry plight.'

"'I prythee, then, that thou wilt expound to me who and what ye are,'
quoth our hero, 'and whether your purpose be such as an honest man may
approve of. As to your threats, they turn from my mind as your caitiffly
weapons would shiver upon my hauberk from Milan.'

"'Nay, Allen,' interrupted one of the party, addressing him who seemed
to be their leader; 'this is a lad of mettle, and such a one as our
honest Jack longs for. But we lure not hawks with empty hands. Look ye,
sir, there is game afoot which it may need such bold hunters as thyself
to follow. Come with us and take a firkin of canary, and we will find
better work for that glaive of thine than getting its owner into broil
and bloodshed; for, by my troth! Milan or no Milan, if my curtel axe
do but ring against that morion of thine it will be an ill day for thy
father's son.'

"For a moment our hero hesitated as to whether it would best become his
knightly traditions to hurl himself against his enemies, or whether it
might not be better to obey their requests. Prudence, mingled with a
large share of curiosity, eventually carried the day, and dismounting
from his horse, he intimated that he was ready to follow his captors.

"'Spoken like a man!' cried he whom they addressed as Allen. 'Jack Cade
will be right glad of such a recruit. Blood and carrion! but thou hast
the thews of a young ox; and I swear, by the haft of my sword, that it
might have gone ill with some of us hadst thou not listened to reason!'

"'Nay, not so, good Allen--not so,' squeaked a very small man, who had
remained in the background while there was any prospect of a fray,
but who now came pushing to the front. 'Hadst thou been alone it might
indeed have been so, perchance, but an expert swordsman can disarm
at pleasure such a one as this young knight. Well I remember in the
Palatinate how I clove to the chine even such another--the Baron von
Slogstaff. He struck at me, look ye, so; but I, with buckler and blade,
did, as one might say, deflect it; and then, countering in carte, I
returned in tierce, and so--St. Agnes save us! who comes here?'

"The apparition which frightened the loquacious little man was
sufficiently strange to cause a qualm even in the bosom of the knight.
Through the darkness there loomed a figure which appeared to be of
gigantic size, and a hoarse voice, issuing apparently some distance
above the heads of the party, broke roughly on the silence of the night.

"'Now out upon thee, Thomas Allen, and foul be thy fate if thou hast
abandoned thy post without good and sufficient cause. By St. Anselm
of the Holy Grove, thou hadst best have never been born than rouse
my spleen this night. Wherefore is it that you and your men are
trailing over the moor like a flock of geese when Michaelmas is near?'

"'Good captain,' said Allen, doffing his bonnet, an example followed by
others of the band, 'we have captured a goodly youth who was pricking
it along the London road. Methought that some word of thanks were meet
reward for such service, rather than taunt or threat.'

"'Nay, take it not to heart, bold Allen,' exclaimed their leader, who
was none other than the great Jack Cade himself. 'Thou knowest of old
that my temper is somewhat choleric, and my tongue not greased with that
unguent which oils the mouths of the lip-serving lords of the land. And
you,' he continued, turning suddenly upon our hero, 'are you ready
to join the great cause which will make England what it was when the
learned Alfred reigned in the land? Zounds, man, speak out, and pick not
your phrases.'

"'I am ready to do aught which may become a knight and a gentleman,'
said the soldier stoutly.

"'Taxes shall be swept away!' cried Cade excitedly--'the impost and
the anpost--the tithe and the hundred-tax. The poor man's salt-box and
flour-bin shall be as free as the nobleman's cellar. Ha! what sayest
thou?'

"'It is but just,' said our hero.

"'Ay, but they give us such justice as the falcon gives the leveret!'
roared the orator. 'Down with them, I say--down with every man of them!
Noble and judge, priest and king, down with them all!'

"'Nay,' said Sir Overbeck Wells, drawing himself up to his full height,
and laying his hand upon the hilt of his sword, 'there I cannot follow
thee, but must rather defy thee as traitor and faineant, seeing that
thou art no true man, but one who would usurp the rights of our master
the king, whom may the Virgin protect!'

"At these bold words, and the defiance which they conveyed, the rebels
seemed for a moment utterly bewildered; but, encouraged by the hoarse
shout of their leader, they brandished their weapons and prepared to
fall upon the knight, who placed himself in a posture for defence and
awaited their attack.

"There now!" cried Sir Walter, rubbing his hands and chuckling, "I've
put the chiel in a pretty warm corner, and we'll see which of you
moderns can take him oot o't. Ne'er a word more will ye get frae me to
help him one way or the other."

"You try your hand, James," cried several voices, and the author in
question had got so far as to make an allusion to a solitary horseman
who was approaching, when he was interrupted by a tall gentleman a
little farther down with a slight stutter and a very nervous manner.

"Excuse me," he said, "but I fancy that I may be able to do something
here. Some of my humble productions have been said to excel Sir Walter
at his best, and I was undoubtedly stronger all round. I could picture
modern society as well as ancient; and as to my plays, why Shakespeare
never came near 'The Lady of Lyons' for popularity. There is this
little thing----" (Here he rummaged among a great pile of papers in
front of him). "Ah! that's a report of mine, when I was in India! Here
it is. No, this is one of my speeches in the House, and this is my
criticism on Tennyson. Didn't I warm him up? I can't find what I wanted,
but of course you have read them all--'Rienzi,' and 'Harold,' and
'The Last of the Barons.' Every schoolboy knows them by heart, as poor
Macaulay would have said. Allow me to give you a sample:--

"In spite of the gallant knight's valiant resistance the combat was too
unequal to be sustained. His sword was broken by a slash from a brown
bill, and he was borne to the ground. He expected immediate death, but
such did not seem to be the intention of the ruffians who had captured
him. He was placed upon the back of his own charger and borne, bound
hand and foot, over the trackless moor, in the fastnesses of which the
rebels secreted themselves.

"In the depths of these wilds there stood a stone building which had
once been a farm-house, but having been for some reason abandoned had
fallen into ruin, and had now become the headquarters of Cade and
his men. A large cowhouse near the farm had been utilised as sleeping
quarters, and some rough attempts had been made to shield the principal
room of the main building from the weather by stopping up the gaping
apertures in the walls. In this apartment was spread out a rough meal
for the returning rebels, and our hero was thrown, still bound, into an
empty outhouse, there to await his fate."

Sir Walter had been listening with the greatest impatience to Bulwer
Lytton's narrative, but when it had reached this point he broke in
impatiently.

"We want a touch of your own style, man," he said. "The
animal-magnetico-electro-hysterical-biological-mysterious sort of story
is all your own, but at present you are just a poor copy of myself, and
nothing more."

There was a murmur of assent from the company, and Defoe remarked,
"Truly, Master Lytton, there is a plaguey resemblance in the style,
which may indeed be but a chance, and yet methinks it is sufficiently
marked to warrant such words as our friend hath used."

"Perhaps you will think that this is an imitation also," said Lytton
bitterly, and leaning back in his chair with a morose countenance, he
continued the narrative in this way:--

"Our unfortunate hero had hardly stretched himself upon the straw with
which his dungeon was littered, when a secret door opened in the wall
and a venerable old man swept majestically into the apartment. The
prisoner gazed upon him with astonishment not unmixed with awe, for on
his broad brow was printed the seal of much knowledge--such knowledge as
it is not granted to the son of man to know. He was clad in a long white
robe, crossed and chequered with mystic devices in the Arabic character,
while a high scarlet tiara marked with the square and circle enhanced
his venerable appearance. 'My son,' he said, turning his piercing and
yet dreamy gaze upon Sir Overbeck, 'all things lead to nothing, and
nothing is the foundation of all things. Cosmos is impenetrable. Why
then should we exist?'

"Astounded at this weighty query, and at the philosophic demeanour of
his visitor, our hero made shift to bid him welcome and to demand his
name and quality. As the old man answered him his voice rose and fell in
musical cadences, like the sighing of the east wind, while an ethereal
and aromatic vapour pervaded the apartment.

"'I am the eternal non-ego,' he answered. 'I am the concentrated
negative--the everlasting essence of nothing. You see in me that
which existed before the beginning of matter many years before the
commencement of time. I am the algebraic _x_ which represents the
infinite divisibility of a finite particle.'

"Sir Overbeck felt a shudder as though an ice-cold hand had been placed
upon his brow. 'What is your message?' he whispered, falling prostrate
before his mysterious visitor.

"'To tell you that the eternities beget chaos, and that the immensities
are at the mercy of the divine ananke. Infinitude crouches before a
personality. The mercurial essence is the prime mover in spirituality,
and the thinker is powerless before the pulsating inanity. The cosmical
procession is terminated only by the unknowable and unpronounceable'----

"May I ask, Mr. Smollett, what you find to laugh at?"

"Gad zooks, master," cried Smollett, who had been sniggering for some
time back. "It seems to me that there is little danger of any one
venturing to dispute that style with you."

"It's all your own," murmured Sir Walter.

"And very pretty, too," quoth Lawrence Sterne, with a malignant grin.
"Pray sir, what language do you call it?"

Lytton was so enraged at these remarks, and at the favour with which
they appeared to be received, that he endeavoured to stutter out some
reply, and then, losing control of himself completely, picked up all his
loose papers and strode out of the room, dropping pamphlets and speeches
at every step. This incident amused the company so much that they
laughed for several minutes without cessation. Gradually the sound of
their laughter sounded more and more harshly in my ears, the lights
on the table grew dim and the company more misty, until they and their
symposium vanished away altogether. I was sitting before the embers of
what had been a roaring fire, but was now little more than a heap of
grey ashes, and the merry laughter of the august company had changed
to the recriminations of my wife, who was shaking me violently by the
shoulder and exhorting me to choose some more seasonable spot for my
slumbers. So ended the wondrous adventures of Master Cyprian Overbeck
Wells, but I still live in the hopes that in some future dream the great
masters may themselves finish that which they have begun.




JOHN BARRINGTON COWLES.

It might seem rash of me to say that I ascribe the death of my poor
friend, John Barrington Cowles, to any preternatural agency. I am aware
that in the present state of public feeling a chain of evidence would
require to be strong indeed before the possibility of such a conclusion
could be admitted.

I shall therefore merely state the circumstances which led up to this
sad event as concisely and as plainly as I can, and leave every reader
to draw his own deductions. Perhaps there may be some one who can throw
light upon what is dark to me.

I first met Barrington Cowles when I went up to Edinburgh University to
take out medical classes there. My landlady in Northumberland Street
had a large house, and, being a widow without children, she gained a
livelihood by providing accommodation for several students.

Barrington Cowles happened to have taken a bedroom upon the same floor
as mine, and when we came to know each other better we shared a small
sitting-room, in which we took our meals. In this manner we originated
a friendship which was unmarred by the slightest disagreement up to the
day of his death.

Cowles' father was the colonel of a Sikh regiment and had remained in
India for many years. He allowed his son a handsome income, but seldom
gave any other sign of parental affection--writing irregularly and
briefly.

My friend, who had himself been born in India, and whose whole
disposition was an ardent tropical one, was much hurt by this neglect.
His mother was dead, and he had no other relation in the world to supply
the blank.

Thus he came in time to concentrate all his affection upon me, and to
confide in me in a manner which is rare among men. Even when a stronger
and deeper passion came upon him, it never infringed upon the old
tenderness between us.

Cowles was a tall, slim young fellow, with an olive, Velasquez-like
face, and dark, tender eyes. I have seldom seen a man who was more
likely to excite a woman's interest, or to captivate her imagination.
His expression was, as a rule, dreamy, and even languid; but if in
conversation a subject arose which interested him he would be all
animation in a moment. On such occasions his colour would heighten, his
eyes gleam, and he could speak with an eloquence which would carry his
audience with him.

In spite of these natural advantages he led a solitary life, avoiding
female society, and reading with great diligence. He was one of the
foremost men of his year, taking the senior medal for anatomy, and the
Neil Arnott prize for physics.

How well I can recollect the first time we met her! Often and often I
have recalled the circumstances, and tried to remember what the exact
impression was which she produced on my mind at the time.

After we came to know her my judgment was warped, so that I am curious
to recollect what my unbiassed{sic} instincts were. It is hard, however,
to eliminate the feelings which reason or prejudice afterwards raised in
me.

It was at the opening of the Royal Scottish Academy in the spring of
1879. My poor friend was passionately attached to art in every form, and
a pleasing chord in music or a delicate effect upon canvas would give
exquisite pleasure to his highly-strung nature. We had gone together to
see the pictures, and were standing in the grand central salon, when I
noticed an extremely beautiful woman standing at the other side of the
room. In my whole life I have never seen such a classically perfect
countenance. It was the real Greek type--the forehead broad, very low,
and as white as marble, with a cloudlet of delicate locks wreathing
round it, the nose straight and clean cut, the lips inclined to
thinness, the chin and lower jaw beautifully rounded off, and yet
sufficiently developed to promise unusual strength of character.

But those eyes--those wonderful eyes! If I could but give some faint
idea of their varying moods, their steely hardness, their feminine
softness, their power of command, their penetrating intensity suddenly
melting away into an expression of womanly weakness--but I am speaking
now of future impressions!

There was a tall, yellow-haired young man with this lady, whom I at once
recognised as a law student with whom I had a slight acquaintance.

Archibald Reeves--for that was his name--was a dashing, handsome young
fellow, and had at one time been a ringleader in every university
escapade; but of late I had seen little of him, and the report was that
he was engaged to be married. His companion was, then, I presumed, his
fiancee. I seated myself upon the velvet settee in the centre of the
room, and furtively watched the couple from behind my catalogue.

The more I looked at her the more her beauty grew upon me. She was
somewhat short in stature, it is true; but her figure was perfection,
and she bore herself in such a fashion that it was only by actual
comparison that one would have known her to be under the medium height.

As I kept my eyes upon them, Reeves was called away for some reason,
and the young lady was left alone. Turning her back to the pictures, she
passed the time until the return of her escort in taking a deliberate
survey of the company, without paying the least heed to the fact that
a dozen pair of eyes, attracted by her elegance and beauty, were bent
curiously upon her. With one of her hands holding the red silk cord
which railed off the pictures, she stood languidly moving her eyes from
face to face with as little self-consciousness as if she were looking at
the canvas creatures behind her. Suddenly, as I watched her, I saw her
gaze become fixed, and, as it were, intense. I followed the direction of
her looks, wondering what could have attracted her so strongly.

John Barrington Cowles was standing before a picture--one, I think, by
Noel Paton--I know that the subject was a noble and ethereal one.
His profile was turned towards us, and never have I seen him to such
advantage. I have said that he was a strikingly handsome man, but at
that moment he looked absolutely magnificent. It was evident that he had
momentarily forgotten his surroundings, and that his whole soul was in
sympathy with the picture before him. His eyes sparkled, and a dusky
pink shone through his clear olive cheeks. She continued to watch him
fixedly, with a look of interest upon her face, until he came out of his
reverie with a start, and turned abruptly round, so that his gaze met
hers. She glanced away at once, but his eyes remained fixed upon her for
some moments. The picture was forgotten already, and his soul had come
down to earth once more.

We caught sight of her once or twice before we left, and each time I
noticed my friend look after her. He made no remark, however, until we
got out into the open air, and were walking arm-in-arm along Princes
Street.

"Did you notice that beautiful woman, in the dark dress, with the white
fur?" he asked.

"Yes, I saw her," I answered.

"Do you know her?" he asked eagerly. "Have you any idea who she is?"

"I don't know her personally," I replied. "But I have no doubt I could
find out all about her, for I believe she is engaged to young Archie
Reeves, and he and I have a lot of mutual friends."

"Engaged!" ejaculated Cowles.

"Why, my dear boy," I said, laughing, "you don't mean to say you are so
susceptible that the fact that a girl to whom you never spoke in your
life is engaged is enough to upset you?"

"Well, not exactly to upset me," he answered, forcing a laugh. "But I
don't mind telling you, Armitage, that I never was so taken by any
one in my life. It wasn't the mere beauty of the face--though that was
perfect enough--but it was the character and the intellect upon it. I
hope, if she is engaged, that it is to some man who will be worthy of
her."

"Why," I remarked, "you speak quite feelingly. It is a clear case of
love at first sight, Jack. However, to put your perturbed spirit at
rest, I'll make a point of finding out all about her whenever I meet any
fellow who is likely to know."

Barrington Cowles thanked me, and the conversation drifted off into
other channels. For several days neither of us made any allusion to
the subject, though my companion was perhaps a little more dreamy
and distraught than usual. The incident had almost vanished from my
remembrance, when one day young Brodie, who is a second cousin of mine,
came up to me on the university steps with the face of a bearer of
tidings.

"I say," he began, "you know Reeves, don't you?"

"Yes. What of him?"

"His engagement is off."

"Off!" I cried. "Why, I only learned the other day that it was on."

"Oh, yes--it's all off. His brother told me so. Deucedly mean of Reeves,
you know, if he has backed out of it, for she was an uncommonly nice
girl."

"I've seen her," I said; "but I don't know her name."

"She is a Miss Northcott, and lives with an old aunt of hers in
Abercrombie Place. Nobody knows anything about her people, or where she
comes from. Anyhow, she is about the most unlucky girl in the world,
poor soul!"

"Why unlucky?"

"Well, you know, this was her second engagement," said young Brodie, who
had a marvellous knack of knowing everything about everybody. "She was
engaged to Prescott--William Prescott, who died. That was a very
sad affair. The wedding day was fixed, and the whole thing looked as
straight as a die when the smash came."

"What smash?" I asked, with some dim recollection of the circumstances.

"Why, Prescott's death. He came to Abercrombie Place one night, and
stayed very late. No one knows exactly when he left, but about one
in the morning a fellow who knew him met him walking rapidly in the
direction of the Queen's Park. He bade him good night, but Prescott
hurried on without heeding him, and that was the last time he was ever
seen alive. Three days afterwards his body was found floating in
St. Margaret's Loch, under St. Anthony's Chapel. No one could ever
understand it, but of course the verdict brought it in as temporary
insanity."

"It was very strange," I remarked.

"Yes, and deucedly rough on the poor girl," said Brodie. "Now that this
other blow has come it will quite crush her. So gentle and ladylike she
is too!"

"You know her personally, then!" I asked.

"Oh, yes, I know her. I have met her several times. I could easily
manage that you should be introduced to her."

"Well," I answered, "it's not so much for my own sake as for a friend of
mine. However, I don't suppose she will go out much for some little time
after this. When she does I will take advantage of your offer."

We shook hands on this, and I thought no more of the matter for some
time.

The next incident which I have to relate as bearing at all upon the
question of Miss Northcott is an unpleasant one. Yet I must detail it as
accurately as possible, since it may throw some light upon the sequel.
One cold night, several months after the conversation with my second
cousin which I have quoted above, I was walking down one of the
lowest streets in the city on my way back from a case which I had been
attending. It was very late, and I was picking my way among the dirty
loungers who were clustering round the doors of a great gin-palace, when
a man staggered out from among them, and held out his hand to me with a
drunken leer. The gaslight fell full upon his face, and, to my intense
astonishment, I recognised in the degraded creature before me my former
acquaintance, young Archibald Reeves, who had once been famous as one
of the most dressy and particular men in the whole college. I was so
utterly surprised that for a moment I almost doubted the evidence of
my own senses; but there was no mistaking those features, which, though
bloated with drink, still retained something of their former comeliness.
I was determined to rescue him, for one night at least, from the company
into which he had fallen.

"Holloa, Reeves!" I said. "Come along with me. I'm going in your
direction."

He muttered some incoherent apology for his condition, and took my arm.
As I supported him towards his lodgings I could see that he was not only
suffering from the effects of a recent debauch, but that a long course
of intemperance had affected his nerves and his brain. His hand when I
touched it was dry and feverish, and he started from every shadow which
fell upon the pavement. He rambled in his speech, too, in a manner which
suggested the delirium of disease rather than the talk of a drunkard.


When I got him to his lodgings I partially undressed him and laid him
upon his bed. His pulse at this time was very high, and he was evidently
extremely feverish. He seemed to have sunk into a doze; and I was about
to steal out of the room to warn his landlady of his condition, when he
started up and caught me by the sleeve of my coat.

"Don't go!" he cried. "I feel better when you are here. I am safe from
her then."

"From her!" I said. "From whom?"

"Her! her!" he answered peevishly. "Ah! you don't know her. She is the
devil! Beautiful--beautiful; but the devil!"

"You are feverish and excited," I said. "Try and get a little sleep. You
will wake better."

"Sleep!" he groaned. "How am I to sleep when I see her sitting down
yonder at the foot of the bed with her great eyes watching and watching
hour after hour? I tell you it saps all the strength and manhood out of
me. That's what makes me drink. God help me--I'm half drunk now!"

"You are very ill," I said, putting some vinegar to his temples; "and
you are delirious. You don't know what you say."

"Yes, I do," he interrupted sharply, looking up at me. "I know very
well what I say. I brought it upon myself. It is my own choice. But I
couldn't--no, by heaven, I couldn't--accept the alternative. I couldn't
keep my faith to her. It was more than man could do."

I sat by the side of the bed, holding one of his burning hands in mine,
and wondering over his strange words. He lay still for some time, and
then, raising his eyes to me, said in a most plaintive voice--

"Why did she not give me warning sooner? Why did she wait until I had
learned to love her so?"

He repeated this question several times, rolling his feverish head from
side to side, and then he dropped into a troubled sleep. I crept out of
the room, and, having seen that he would be properly cared for, left
the house. His words, however, rang in my ears for days afterwards, and
assumed a deeper significance when taken with what was to come.

My friend, Barrington Cowles, had been away for his summer holidays, and
I had heard nothing of him for several months. When the winter session
came on, however, I received a telegram from him, asking me to secure
the old rooms in Northumberland Street for him, and telling me the train
by which he would arrive. I went down to meet him, and was delighted to
find him looking wonderfully hearty and well.

"By the way," he said suddenly, that night, as we sat in our chairs
by the fire, talking over the events of the holidays, "you have never
congratulated me yet!"

"On what, my boy?" I asked.

"What! Do you mean to say you have not heard of my engagement?"

"Engagement! No!" I answered. "However, I am delighted to hear it, and
congratulate you with all my heart."

"I wonder it didn't come to your ears," he said. "It was the queerest
thing. You remember that girl whom we both admired so much at the
Academy?"

"What!" I cried, with a vague feeling of apprehension at my heart. "You
don't mean to say that you are engaged to her?"

"I thought you would be surprised," he answered. "When I was staying
with an old aunt of mine in Peterhead, in Aberdeenshire, the Northcotts
happened to come there on a visit, and as we had mutual friends we soon
met. I found out that it was a false alarm about her being engaged, and
then--well, you know what it is when you are thrown into the society of
such a girl in a place like Peterhead. Not, mind you," he added, "that I
consider I did a foolish or hasty thing. I have never regretted it for
a moment. The more I know Kate the more I admire her and love her.
However, you must be introduced to her, and then you will form your own
opinion."

I expressed my pleasure at the prospect, and endeavoured to speak as
lightly as I could to Cowles upon the subject, but I felt depressed
and anxious at heart. The words of Reeves and the unhappy fate of young
Prescott recurred to my recollection, and though I could assign no
tangible reason for it, a vague, dim fear and distrust of the woman
took possession of me. It may be that this was foolish prejudice and
superstition upon my part, and that I involuntarily contorted her future
doings and sayings to fit into some half-formed wild theory of my
own. This has been suggested to me by others as an explanation of my
narrative. They are welcome to their opinion if they can reconcile it
with the facts which I have to tell.

I went round with my friend a few days afterwards to call upon Miss
Northcott. I remember that, as we went down Abercrombie Place, our
attention was attracted by the shrill yelping of a dog--which noise
proved eventually to come from the house to which we were bound. We
were shown upstairs, where I was introduced to old Mrs. Merton, Miss
Northcott's aunt, and to the young lady herself. She looked as beautiful
as ever, and I could not wonder at my friend's infatuation. Her face
was a little more flushed than usual, and she held in her hand a heavy
dog-whip, with which she had been chastising a small Scotch terrier,
whose cries we had heard in the street. The poor brute was cringing up
against the wall, whining piteously, and evidently completely cowed.

"So Kate," said my friend, after we had taken our seats, "you have been
falling out with Carlo again."

"Only a very little quarrel this time," she said, smiling charmingly.
"He is a dear, good old fellow, but he needs correction now and then."
Then, turning to me, "We all do that, Mr. Armitage, don't we? What a
capital thing if, instead of receiving a collective punishment at the
end of our lives, we were to have one at once, as the dogs do, when we
did anything wicked. It would make us more careful, wouldn't it?"

I acknowledged that it would.

"Supposing that every time a man misbehaved himself a gigantic hand
were to seize him, and he were lashed with a whip until he fainted"--she
clenched her white fingers as she spoke, and cut out viciously with
the dog-whip--"it would do more to keep him good than any number of
high-minded theories of morality."

"Why, Kate," said my friend, "you are quite savage to-day."

"No, Jack," she laughed. "I'm only propounding a theory for Mr.
Armitage's consideration."

The two began to chat together about some Aberdeenshire reminiscence,
and I had time to observe Mrs. Merton, who had remained silent during
our short conversation. She was a very strange-looking old lady. What
attracted attention most in her appearance was the utter want of colour
which she exhibited. Her hair was snow-white, and her face extremely
pale. Her lips were bloodless, and even her eyes were of such a light
tinge of blue that they hardly relieved the general pallor. Her dress
was a grey silk, which harmonised with her general appearance. She had a
peculiar expression of countenance, which I was unable at the moment to
refer to its proper cause.

She was working at some old-fashioned piece of ornamental needlework,
and as she moved her arms her dress gave forth a dry, melancholy
rustling, like the sound of leaves in the autumn. There was something
mournful and depressing in the sight of her. I moved my chair a little
nearer, and asked her how she liked Edinburgh, and whether she had been
there long.

When I spoke to her she started and looked up at me with a scared look
on her face. Then I saw in a moment what the expression was which I had
observed there. It was one of fear--intense and overpowering fear. It
was so marked that I could have staked my life on the woman before
me having at some period of her life been subjected to some terrible
experience or dreadful misfortune.

"Oh, yes, I like it," she said, in a soft, timid voice; "and we have
been here long--that is, not very long. We move about a great deal." She
spoke with hesitation, as if afraid of committing herself.

"You are a native of Scotland, I presume?" I said.

"No--that is, not entirely. We are not natives of any place. We are
cosmopolitan, you know." She glanced round in the direction of Miss
Northcott as she spoke, but the two were still chatting together near
the window. Then she suddenly bent forward to me, with a look of intense
earnestness upon her face, and said--

"Don't talk to me any more, please. She does not like it, and I shall
suffer for it afterwards. Please, don't do it."

I was about to ask her the reason for this strange request, but when she
saw I was going to address her, she rose and walked slowly out of the
room. As she did so I perceived that the lovers had ceased to talk and
that Miss Northcott was looking at me with her keen, grey eyes.

"You must excuse my aunt, Mr. Armitage," she said; "she is odd, and
easily fatigued. Come over and look at my album."

We spent some time examining the portraits. Miss Northcott's father and
mother were apparently ordinary mortals enough, and I could not detect
in either of them any traces of the character which showed itself in
their daughter's face. There was one old daguerreotype, however, which
arrested my attention. It represented a man of about the age of forty,
and strikingly handsome. He was clean shaven, and extraordinary power
was expressed upon his prominent lower jaw and firm, straight mouth.
His eyes were somewhat deeply set in his head, however, and there was a
snake-like flattening at the upper part of his forehead, which detracted
from his appearance. I almost involuntarily, when I saw the head,
pointed to it, and exclaimed--

"There is your prototype in your family, Miss Northcott."

"Do you think so?" she said. "I am afraid you are paying me a very bad
compliment. Uncle Anthony was always considered the black sheep of the
family."

"Indeed," I answered; "my remark was an unfortunate one, then."

"Oh, don't mind that," she said; "I always thought myself that he was
worth all of them put together. He was an officer in the Forty-first
Regiment, and he was killed in action during the Persian War--so he died
nobly, at any rate."

"That's the sort of death I should like to die," said Cowles, his dark
eyes flashing, as they would when he was excited; "I often wish I had
taken to my father's profession instead of this vile pill-compounding
drudgery."

"Come, Jack, you are not going to die any sort of death yet," she said,
tenderly taking his hand in hers.

I could not understand the woman. There was such an extraordinary
mixture of masculine decision and womanly tenderness about her, with
the consciousness of something all her own in the background, that she
fairly puzzled me. I hardly knew, therefore, how to answer Cowles
when, as we walked down the street together, he asked the comprehensive
question--

"Well, what do you think of her?"

"I think she is wonderfully beautiful," I answered guardedly.

"That, of course," he replied irritably. "You knew that before you
came!"

"I think she is very clever too," I remarked.

Barrington Cowles walked on for some time, and then he suddenly turned
on me with the strange question--

"Do you think she is cruel? Do you think she is the sort of girl who
would take a pleasure in inflicting pain?"

"Well, really," I answered, "I have hardly had time to form an opinion."

We then walked on for some time in silence.

"She is an old fool," at length muttered Cowles. "She is mad."

"Who is?" I asked.

"Why, that old woman--that aunt of Kate's--Mrs. Merton, or whatever her
name is."

Then I knew that my poor colourless friend had been speaking to Cowles,
but he never said anything more as to the nature of her communication.

My companion went to bed early that night, and I sat up a long time by
the fire, thinking over all that I had seen and heard. I felt that there
was some mystery about the girl--some dark fatality so strange as to
defy conjecture. I thought of Prescott's interview with her before
their marriage, and the fatal termination of it. I coupled it with poor
drunken Reeves' plaintive cry, "Why did she not tell me sooner?" and
with the other words he had spoken. Then my mind ran over Mrs. Merton's
warning to me, Cowles' reference to her, and even the episode of the
whip and the cringing dog.

The whole effect of my recollections was unpleasant to a degree, and yet
there was no tangible charge which I could bring against the woman. It
would be worse than useless to attempt to warn my friend until I had
definitely made up my mind what I was to warn him against. He would
treat any charge against her with scorn. What could I do? How could I
get at some tangible conclusion as to her character and antecedents? No
one in Edinburgh knew them except as recent acquaintances. She was an
orphan, and as far as I knew she had never disclosed where her former
home had been. Suddenly an idea struck me. Among my father's friends
there was a Colonel Joyce, who had served a long time in India upon the
staff, and who would be likely to know most of the officers who had been
out there since the Mutiny. I sat down at once, and, having trimmed the
lamp, proceeded to write a letter to the Colonel. I told him that I was
very curious to gain some particulars about a certain Captain Northcott,
who had served in the Forty-first Foot, and who had fallen in the
Persian War. I described the man as well as I could from my recollection
of the daguerreotype, and then, having directed the letter, posted it
that very night, after which, feeling that I had done all that could be
done, I retired to bed, with a mind too anxious to allow me to sleep.




PART II.

I got an answer from Leicester, where the Colonel resided, within two
days. I have it before me as I write, and copy it verbatim.


"DEAR BOB," it said, "I remember the man well. I was with him at
Calcutta, and afterwards at Hyderabad. He was a curious, solitary sort
of mortal; but a gallant soldier enough, for he distinguished himself at
Sobraon, and was wounded, if I remember right. He was not popular in
his corps--they said he was a pitiless, cold-blooded fellow, with
no geniality in him. There was a rumour, too, that he was a
devil-worshipper, or something of that sort, and also that he had
the evil eye, which, of course, was all nonsense. He had some strange
theories, I remember, about the power of the human will and the effects
of mind upon matter.

"How are you getting on with your medical studies? Never forget, my boy,
that your father's son has every claim upon me, and that if I can serve
you in any way I am always at your command.--Ever affectionately yours,

"EDWARD JOYCE.

"P.S.--By the way, Northcott did not fall in action. He was killed after
peace was declared in a crazy attempt to get some of the eternal fire
from the sun-worshippers' temple. There was considerable mystery about
his death."


I read this epistle over several times--at first with a feeling of
satisfaction, and then with one of disappointment. I had come on some
curious information, and yet hardly what I wanted. He was an eccentric
man, a devil-worshipper, and rumoured to have the power of the evil eye.
I could believe the young lady's eyes, when endowed with that cold, grey
shimmer which I had noticed in them once or twice, to be capable of any
evil which human eye ever wrought; but still the superstition was
an effete one. Was there not more meaning in that sentence which
followed--"He had theories of the power of the human will and of the
effect of mind upon matter"? I remember having once read a quaint
treatise, which I had imagined to be mere charlatanism at the time, of
the power of certain human minds, and of effects produced by them at a
distance.

Was Miss Northcott endowed with some exceptional power of the sort?

The idea grew upon me, and very shortly I had evidence which convinced
me of the truth of the supposition.

It happened that at the very time when my mind was dwelling upon this
subject, I saw a notice in the paper that our town was to be visited by
Dr. Messinger, the well-known medium and mesmerist. Messinger was a man
whose performance, such as it was, had been again and again pronounced
to be genuine by competent judges. He was far above trickery, and had
the reputation of being the soundest living authority upon the strange
pseudo-sciences of animal magnetism and electro-biology. Determined,
therefore, to see what the human will could do, even against all the
disadvantages of glaring footlights and a public platform, I took a
ticket for the first night of the performance, and went with several
student friends.

We had secured one of the side boxes, and did not arrive until after the
performance had begun. I had hardly taken my seat before I recognised
Barrington Cowles, with his fiancee and old Mrs. Merton, sitting in the
third or fourth row of the stalls. They caught sight of me at almost
the same moment, and we bowed to each other. The first portion of the
lecture was somewhat commonplace, the lecturer giving tricks of pure
legerdemain, with one or two manifestations of mesmerism, performed
upon a subject whom he had brought with him. He gave us an exhibition of
clairvoyance too, throwing his subject into a trance, and then demanding
particulars as to the movements of absent friends, and the whereabouts
of hidden objects all of which appeared to be answered satisfactorily.
I had seen all this before, however. What I wanted to see now was the
effect of the lecturer's will when exerted upon some independent member
of the audience.

He came round to that as the concluding exhibition in his performance.
"I have shown you," he said, "that a mesmerised subject is entirely
dominated by the will of the mesmeriser. He loses all power of
volition, and his very thoughts are such as are suggested to him by
the master-mind. The same end may be attained without any preliminary
process. A strong will can, simply by virtue of its strength, take
possession of a weaker one, even at a distance, and can regulate the
impulses and the actions of the owner of it. If there was one man in
the world who had a very much more highly-developed will than any of the
rest of the human family, there is no reason why he should not be
able to rule over them all, and to reduce his fellow-creatures to the
condition of automatons. Happily there is such a dead level of mental
power, or rather of mental weakness, among us that such a catastrophe
is not likely to occur; but still within our small compass there are
variations which produce surprising effects. I shall now single out one
of the audience, and endeavour 'by the mere power of will' to compel him
to come upon the platform, and do and say what I wish. Let me assure you
that there is no collusion, and that the subject whom I may select is
at perfect liberty to resent to the uttermost any impulse which I may
communicate to him."

With these words the lecturer came to the front of the platform, and
glanced over the first few rows of the stalls. No doubt Cowles' dark
skin and bright eyes marked him out as a man of a highly nervous
temperament, for the mesmerist picked him out in a moment, and fixed his
eyes upon him. I saw my friend give a start of surprise, and then settle
down in his chair, as if to express his determination not to yield
to the influence of the operator. Messinger was not a man whose head
denoted any great brain-power, but his gaze was singularly intense and
penetrating. Under the influence of it Cowles made one or two spasmodic
motions of his hands, as if to grasp the sides of his seat, and then
half rose, but only to sink down again, though with an evident effort. I
was watching the scene with intense interest, when I happened to catch
a glimpse of Miss Northcott's face. She was sitting with her eyes fixed
intently upon the mesmerist, and with such an expression of concentrated
power upon her features as I have never seen on any other human
countenance. Her jaw was firmly set, her lips compressed, and her face
as hard as if it were a beautiful sculpture cut out of the whitest
marble. Her eyebrows were drawn down, however, and from beneath them her
grey eyes seemed to sparkle and gleam with a cold light.

I looked at Cowles again, expecting every moment to see him rise and
obey the mesmerist's wishes, when there came from the platform a short,
gasping cry as of a man utterly worn out and prostrated by a prolonged
struggle. Messinger was leaning against the table, his hand to his
forehead, and the perspiration pouring down his face. "I won't go on,"
he cried, addressing the audience. "There is a stronger will than
mine acting against me. You must excuse me for to-night." The man
was evidently ill, and utterly unable to proceed, so the curtain
was lowered, and the audience dispersed, with many comments upon the
lecturer's sudden indisposition.

I waited outside the hall until my friend and the ladies came out.
Cowles was laughing over his recent experience.

"He didn't succeed with me, Bob," he cried triumphantly, as he shook my
hand. "I think he caught a Tartar that time."

"Yes," said Miss Northcott, "I think that Jack ought to be very proud of
his strength of mind; don't you! Mr. Armitage?"

"It took me all my time, though," my friend said seriously. "You can't
conceive what a strange feeling I had once or twice. All the strength
seemed to have gone out of me--especially just before he collapsed
himself."

I walked round with Cowles in order to see the ladies home. He walked in
front with Mrs. Merton, and I found myself behind with the young lady.
For a minute or so I walked beside her without making any remark, and
then I suddenly blurted out, in a manner which must have seemed somewhat
brusque to her--

"You did that, Miss Northcott."

"Did what?" she asked sharply.

"Why, mesmerised the mesmeriser--I suppose that is the best way of
describing the transaction."

"What a strange idea!" she said, laughing. "You give me credit for a
strong will then?"

"Yes," I said. "For a dangerously strong one."

"Why dangerous?" she asked, in a tone of surprise.

"I think," I answered, "that any will which can exercise such power
is dangerous--for there is always a chance of its being turned to bad
uses."

"You would make me out a very dreadful individual, Mr. Armitage," she
said; and then looking up suddenly in my face--"You have never liked me.
You are suspicious of me and distrust me, though I have never given you
cause."

The accusation was so sudden and so true that I was unable to find any
reply to it. She paused for a moment, and then said in a voice which was
hard and cold--

"Don't let your prejudice lead you to interfere with me, however, or say
anything to your friend, Mr. Cowles, which might lead to a difference
between us. You would find that to be very bad policy."

There was something in the way she spoke which gave an indescribable air
of a threat to these few words.

"I have no power," I said, "to interfere with your plans for the future.
I cannot help, however, from what I have seen and heard, having fears
for my friend."

"Fears!" she repeated scornfully. "Pray what have you seen and heard.
Something from Mr. Reeves, perhaps--I believe he is another of your
friends?"

"He never mentioned your name to me," I answered, truthfully enough.
"You will be sorry to hear that he is dying." As I said it we passed
by a lighted window, and I glanced down to see what effect my words had
upon her. She was laughing--there was no doubt of it; she was laughing
quietly to herself. I could see merriment in every feature of her face.
I feared and mistrusted the woman from that moment more than ever.

We said little more that night. When we parted she gave me a quick,
warning glance, as if to remind me of what she had said about the danger
of interference. Her cautions would have made little difference to me
could I have seen my way to benefiting Barrington Cowles by anything
which I might say. But what could I say? I might say that her former
suitors had been unfortunate. I might say that I believed her to be
a cruel-hearted woman. I might say that I considered her to possess
wonderful, and almost preternatural powers. What impression would any
of these accusations make upon an ardent lover--a man with my friend's
enthusiastic temperament? I felt that it would be useless to advance
them, so I was silent.

And now I come to the beginning of the end. Hitherto much has been
surmise and inference and hearsay. It is my painful task to relate now,
as dispassionately and as accurately as I can, what actually occurred
under my own notice, and to reduce to writing the events which preceded
the death of my friend.

Towards the end of the winter Cowles remarked to me that he intended
to marry Miss Northcott as soon as possible--probably some time in the
spring. He was, as I have already remarked, fairly well off, and the
young lady had some money of her own, so that there was no pecuniary
reason for a long engagement. "We are going to take a little house out
at Corstorphine," he said, "and we hope to see your face at our table,
Bob, as often as you can possibly come." I thanked him, and tried to
shake off my apprehensions, and persuade myself that all would yet be
well.

It was about three weeks before the time fixed for the marriage, that
Cowles remarked to me one evening that he feared he would be late that
night. "I have had a note from Kate," he said, "asking me to call about
eleven o'clock to-night, which seems rather a late hour, but perhaps she
wants to talk over something quietly after old Mrs. Merton retires."

It was not until after my friend's departure that I suddenly recollected
the mysterious interview which I had been told of as preceding the
suicide of young Prescott. Then I thought of the ravings of poor Reeves,
rendered more tragic by the fact that I had heard that very day of
his death. What was the meaning of it all? Had this woman some baleful
secret to disclose which must be known before her marriage? Was it some
reason which forbade her to marry? Or was it some reason which forbade
others to marry her? I felt so uneasy that I would have followed Cowles,
even at the risk of offending him, and endeavoured to dissuade him from
keeping his appointment, but a glance at the clock showed me that I was
too late.

I was determined to wait up for his return, so I piled some coals upon
the fire and took down a novel from the shelf. My thoughts proved more
interesting than the book, however, and I threw it on one side. An
indefinable feeling of anxiety and depression weighed upon me. Twelve
o'clock came, and then half-past, without any sign of my friend. It
was nearly one when I heard a step in the street outside, and then a
knocking at the door. I was surprised, as I knew that my friend always
carried a key--however, I hurried down and undid the latch. As the
door flew open I knew in a moment that my worst apprehensions had been
fulfilled. Barrington Cowles was leaning against the railings outside
with his face sunk upon his breast, and his whole attitude expressive
of the most intense despondency. As he passed in he gave a stagger, and
would have fallen had I not thrown my left arm around him. Supporting
him with this, and holding the lamp in my other hand, I led him slowly
upstairs into our sitting-room. He sank down upon the sofa without a
word. Now that I could get a good view of him, I was horrified to see
the change which had come over him. His face was deadly pale, and his
very lips were bloodless. His cheeks and forehead were clammy, his eyes
glazed, and his whole expression altered. He looked like a man who had
gone through some terrible ordeal, and was thoroughly unnerved.

"My dear fellow, what is the matter?" I asked, breaking the silence.
"Nothing amiss, I trust? Are you unwell?"

"Brandy!" he gasped. "Give me some brandy!"

I took out the decanter, and was about to help him, when he snatched it
from me with a trembling hand, and poured out nearly half a tumbler of
the spirit. He was usually a most abstemious man, but he took this off
at a gulp without adding any water to it.

It seemed to do him good, for the colour began to come back to his face,
and he leaned upon his elbow.

"My engagement is off, Bob," he said, trying to speak calmly, but with a
tremor in his voice which he could not conceal. "It is all over."

"Cheer up!" I answered, trying to encourage him.

"Don't get down on your luck. How was it? What was it all about?"

"About?" he groaned, covering his face with his hands. "If I did
tell you, Bob, you would not believe it. It is too dreadful--too
horrible--unutterably awful and incredible! O Kate, Kate!" and he rocked
himself to and fro in his grief; "I pictured you an angel and I find you
a----"

"A what?" I asked, for he had paused.

He looked at me with a vacant stare, and then suddenly burst out, waving
his arms: "A fiend!" he cried. "A ghoul from the pit! A vampire soul
behind a lovely face! Now, God forgive me!" he went on in a lower tone,
turning his face to the wall; "I have said more than I should. I have
loved her too much to speak of her as she is. I love her too much now."

He lay still for some time, and I had hoped that the brandy had had the
effect of sending him to sleep, when he suddenly turned his face towards
me.

"Did you ever read of wehr-wolves?" he asked.

I answered that I had.

"There is a story," he said thoughtfully, "in one of Marryat's books,
about a beautiful woman who took the form of a wolf at night and
devoured her own children. I wonder what put that idea into Marryat's
head?"

He pondered for some minutes, and then he cried out for some more
brandy. There was a small bottle of laudanum upon the table, and I
managed, by insisting upon helping him myself, to mix about half a
drachm with the spirits. He drank it off, and sank his head once more
upon the pillow. "Anything better than that," he groaned. "Death is
better than that. Crime and cruelty; cruelty and crime. Anything is
better than that," and so on, with the monotonous refrain, until at last
the words became indistinct, his eyelids closed over his weary eyes, and
he sank into a profound slumber. I carried him into his bedroom without
arousing him; and making a couch for myself out of the chairs, I
remained by his side all night.

In the morning Barrington Cowles was in a high fever. For weeks he
lingered between life and death. The highest medical skill of Edinburgh
was called in, and his vigorous constitution slowly got the better of
his disease. I nursed him during this anxious time; but through all his
wild delirium and ravings he never let a word escape him which explained
the mystery connected with Miss Northcott. Sometimes he spoke of her
in the tenderest words and most loving voice. At others he screamed out
that she was a fiend, and stretched out his arms, as if to keep her off.
Several times he cried that he would not sell his soul for a beautiful
face, and then he would moan in a most piteous voice, "But I love her--I
love her for all that; I shall never cease to love her."

When he came to himself he was an altered man. His severe illness
had emaciated him greatly, but his dark eyes had lost none of their
brightness. They shone out with startling brilliancy from under
his dark, overhanging brows. His manner was eccentric and
variable--sometimes irritable, sometimes recklessly mirthful, but never
natural. He would glance about him in a strange, suspicious manner, like
one who feared something, and yet hardly knew what it was he dreaded. He
never mentioned Miss Northcott's name--never until that fatal evening of
which I have now to speak.

In an endeavour to break the current of his thoughts by frequent change
of scene, I travelled with him through the highlands of Scotland, and
afterwards down the east coast. In one of these peregrinations of ours
we visited the Isle of May, an island near the mouth of the Firth of
Forth, which, except in the tourist season, is singularly barren and
desolate. Beyond the keeper of the lighthouse there are only one or
two families of poor fisher-folk, who sustain a precarious existence by
their nets, and by the capture of cormorants and solan geese. This grim
spot seemed to have such a fascination for Cowles that we engaged a room
in one of the fishermen's huts, with the intention of passing a week
or two there. I found it very dull, but the loneliness appeared to be a
relief to my friend's mind. He lost the look of apprehension which had
become habitual to him, and became something like his old self.

He would wander round the island all day, looking down from the summit
of the great cliffs which gird it round, and watching the long green
waves as they came booming in and burst in a shower of spray over the
rocks beneath.

One night--I think it was our third or fourth on the island--Barrington
Cowles and I went outside the cottage before retiring to rest, to enjoy
a little fresh air, for our room was small, and the rough lamp caused
an unpleasant odour. How well I remember every little circumstance
in connection with that night! It promised to be tempestuous, for the
clouds were piling up in the north-west, and the dark wrack was drifting
across the face of the moon, throwing alternate belts of light and shade
upon the rugged surface of the island and the restless sea beyond.

We were standing talking close by the door of the cottage, and I was
thinking to myself that my friend was more cheerful than he had been
since his illness, when he gave a sudden, sharp cry, and looking round
at him I saw, by the light of the moon, an expression of unutterable
horror come over his features. His eyes became fixed and staring, as
if riveted upon some approaching object, and he extended his long thin
forefinger, which quivered as he pointed.

"Look there!" he cried. "It is she! It is she! You see her there coming
down the side of the brae." He gripped me convulsively by the wrist as
he spoke. "There she is, coming towards us!"

"Who?" I cried, straining my eyes into the darkness.

"She--Kate--Kate Northcott!" he screamed. "She has come for me. Hold me
fast, old friend. Don't let me go!"

"Hold up, old man," I said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Pull yourself
together; you are dreaming; there is nothing to fear."

"She is gone!" he cried, with a gasp of relief. "No, by heaven! there
she is again, and nearer--coming nearer. She told me she would come for
me, and she keeps her word."

"Come into the house," I said. His hand, as I grasped it, was as cold as
ice.

"Ah, I knew it!" he shouted. "There she is, waving her arms. She is
beckoning to me. It is the signal. I must go. I am coming, Kate; I am
coming!"

I threw my arms around him, but he burst from me with superhuman
strength, and dashed into the darkness of the night. I followed him,
calling to him to stop, but he ran the more swiftly. When the moon
shone out between the clouds I could catch a glimpse of his dark figure,
running rapidly in a straight line, as if to reach some definite goal.
It may have been imagination, but it seemed to me that in the flickering
light I could distinguish a vague something in front of him--a
shimmering form which eluded his grasp and led him onwards. I saw his
outlines stand out hard against the sky behind him as he surmounted the
brow of a little hill, then he disappeared, and that was the last ever
seen by mortal eye of Barrington Cowles.

The fishermen and I walked round the island all that night with
lanterns, and examined every nook and corner without seeing a trace
of my poor lost friend. The direction in which he had been running
terminated in a rugged line of jagged cliffs overhanging the sea. At one
place here the edge was somewhat crumbled, and there appeared marks upon
the turf which might have been left by human feet. We lay upon our faces
at this spot, and peered with our lanterns over the edge, looking down
on the boiling surge two hundred feet below. As we lay there, suddenly,
above the beating of the waves and the howling of the wind, there rose
a strange wild screech from the abyss below. The fishermen--a naturally
superstitious race--averred that it was the sound of a woman's laughter,
and I could hardly persuade them to continue the search. For my own part
I think it may have been the cry of some sea-fowl startled from its nest
by the flash of the lantern. However that may be, I never wish to hear
such a sound again.

And now I have come to the end of the painful duty which I have
undertaken. I have told as plainly and as accurately as I could the
story of the death of John Barrington Cowles, and the train of events
which preceded it. I am aware that to others the sad episode seemed
commonplace enough. Here is the prosaic account which appeared in the
Scotsman a couple of days afterwards:--


"Sad Occurrence on the Isle of May.--The Isle of May has been the scene
of a sad disaster. Mr. John Barrington Cowles, a gentleman well known
in University circles as a most distinguished student, and the present
holder of the Neil Arnott prize for physics, has been recruiting his
health in this quiet retreat. The night before last he suddenly left his
friend, Mr. Robert Armitage, and he has not since been heard of. It
is almost certain that he has met his death by falling over the cliffs
which surround the island. Mr. Cowles' health has been failing for some
time, partly from over study and partly from worry connected with family
affairs. By his death the University loses one of her most promising
alumni."


I have nothing more to add to my statement. I have unburdened my mind of
all that I know. I can well conceive that many, after weighing all
that I have said, will see no ground for an accusation against Miss
Northcott. They will say that, because a man of a naturally excitable
disposition says and does wild things, and even eventually commits
self-murder after a sudden and heavy disappointment, there is no reason
why vague charges should be advanced against a young lady. To this,
I answer that they are welcome to their opinion. For my own part, I
ascribe the death of William Prescott, of Archibald Reeves, and of John
Barrington Cowles to this woman with as much confidence as if I had seen
her drive a dagger into their hearts.

You ask me, no doubt, what my own theory is which will explain all these
strange facts. I have none, or, at best, a dim and vague one. That Miss
Northcott possessed extraordinary powers over the minds, and through the
minds over the bodies, of others, I am convinced, as well as that her
instincts were to use this power for base and cruel purposes. That some
even more fiendish and terrible phase of character lay behind this--some
horrible trait which it was necessary for her to reveal before
marriage--is to be inferred from the experience of her three lovers,
while the dreadful nature of the mystery thus revealed can only be
surmised from the fact that the very mention of it drove from her those
who had loved her so passionately. Their subsequent fate was, in my
opinion, the result of her vindictive remembrance of their desertion of
her, and that they were forewarned of it at the time was shown by the
words of both Reeves and Cowles. Above this, I can say nothing. I lay
the facts soberly before the public as they came under my notice. I have
never seen Miss Northcott since, nor do I wish to do so. If by the words
I have written I can save any one human being from the snare of those
bright eyes and that beautiful face, then I can lay down my pen with the
assurance that my poor friend has not died altogether in vain.




ELIAS B. HOPKINS, THE PARSON OF JACKMAN'S GULCH.

He was known in the Gulch as the Reverend Elias B. Hopkins, but it was
generally understood that the title was an honorary one, extorted by his
many eminent qualities, and not borne out by any legal claim which he
could adduce. "The Parson" was another of his sobriquets, which was
sufficiently distinctive in a land where the flock was scattered and the
shepherds few. To do him justice, he never pretended to have received
any preliminary training for the ministry, or any orthodox qualification
to practise it. "We're all working in the claim of the Lord," he
remarked one day, "and it don't matter a cent whether we're hired for
the job or whether we waltzes in on our own account," a piece of rough
imagery which appealed directly to the instincts of Jackman's Gulch.
It is quite certain that during the first few months his presence had a
marked effect in diminishing the excessive use both of strong drinks
and of stronger adjectives which had been characteristic of the little
mining settlement. Under his tuition, men began to understand that
the resources of their native language were less limited than they had
supposed, and that it was possible to convey their impressions with
accuracy without the aid of a gaudy halo of profanity.

We were certainly in need of a regenerator at Jackman's Gulch about
the beginning of '53. Times were flush then over the whole colony, but
nowhere flusher than there. Our material prosperity had had a bad effect
upon our morals. The camp was a small one, lying rather better than a
hundred and twenty miles to the north of Ballarat, at a spot where a
mountain torrent finds its way down a rugged ravine on its way to join
the Arrowsmith River. History does not relate who the original Jackman
may have been, but at the time I speak of the camp it contained a
hundred or so adults, many of whom were men who had sought an asylum
there after making more civilised mining centres too hot to hold
them. They were a rough, murderous crew, hardly leavened by the few
respectable members of society who were scattered among them.

Communication between Jackman's Gulch and the outside world was
difficult and uncertain. A portion of the bush between it and Ballarat
was infested by a redoubtable outlaw named Conky Jim, who, with a small
band as desperate as himself, made travelling a dangerous matter. It
was customary, therefore, at the Gulch, to store up the dust and nuggets
obtained from the mines in a special store, each man's share being
placed in a separate bag on which his name was marked. A trusty man,
named Woburn, was deputed to watch over this primitive bank. When the
amount deposited became considerable, a waggon was hired, and the
whole treasure was conveyed to Ballarat, guarded by the police and by
a certain number of miners, who took it in turn to perform the office.
Once in Ballarat, it was forwarded on to Melbourne by the regular gold
waggons. By this plan the gold was often kept for months in the Gulch
before being despatched, but Conky Jim was effectually checkmated, as
the escort party were far too strong for him and his gang. He appeared,
at the time of which I write, to have forsaken his haunts in disgust,
and the road could be traversed by small parties with impunity.

Comparative order used to reign during the daytime at Jackman's Gulch,
for the majority of the inhabitants were out with crowbar and pick among
the quartz ledges, or washing clay and sand in their cradles by the
banks of the little stream. As the sun sank down, however, the claims
were gradually deserted, and their unkempt owners, clay-bespattered and
shaggy, came lounging into camp, ripe for any form of mischief. Their
first visit was to Woburn's gold store, where their clean-up of the day
was duly deposited, the amount being entered in the storekeeper's book,
and each miner retaining enough to cover his evening's expenses. After
that, all restraint was at an end, and each set to work to get rid
of his surplus dust with the greatest rapidity possible. The focus of
dissipation was the rough bar, formed by a couple of hogsheads spanned
by planks, which was dignified by the name of the "Britannia Drinking
Saloon." Here Nat Adams, the burly bar-keeper, dispensed bad whisky
at the rate of two shillings a noggin, or a guinea a bottle, while his
brother Ben acted as croupier in a rude wooden shanty behind, which had
been converted into a gambling hell, and was crowded every night. There
had been a third brother, but an unfortunate misunderstanding with a
customer had shortened his existence. "He was too soft to live long,"
his brother Nathaniel feelingly observed, on the occasion of his
funeral. "Many's the time I've said to him, 'If you're arguin' a pint
with a stranger, you should always draw first, then argue, and then
shoot, if you judge that he's on the shoot.' Bill was too purlite.
He must needs argue first and draw after, when he might just as well
have kivered his man before talkin' it over with him." This amiable
weakness of the deceased Bill was a blow to the firm of Adams, which
became so short-handed that the concern could hardly be worked without
the admission of a partner, which would mean a considerable decrease in
the profits.

Nat Adams had had a roadside shanty in the Gulch before the discovery
of gold, and might, therefore, claim to be the oldest inhabitant.
These keepers of shanties were a peculiar race, and at the cost of a
digression it may be interesting to explain how they managed to amass
considerable sums of money in a land where travellers were few and far
between. It was the custom of the "bushmen," i.e., bullock-drivers,
sheep tenders, and the other white hands who worked on the sheep-runs up
country, to sign articles by which they agreed to serve their master for
one, two, or three years at so much per year and certain daily rations.
Liquor was never included in this agreement, and the men remained, per
force, total abstainers during the whole time. The money was paid in a
lump sum at the end of the engagement. When that day came round,
Jimmy, the stockman, would come slouching into his master's office,
cabbage-tree hat in hand.

"Morning, master!" Jimmy would say. "My time's up. I guess I'll draw my
cheque and ride down to town."

"You'll come back, Jimmy?"

"Yes, I'll come back. Maybe I'll be away three weeks, maybe a month. I
want some clothes, master, and my bloomin' boots are well-nigh off my
feet."

"How much, Jimmy?" asks his master, taking up his pen.

"There's sixty pound screw," Jimmy answers thoughtfully; "and you mind,
master, last March, when the brindled bull broke out o' the paddock. Two
pound you promised me then. And a pound at the dipping. And a pound when
Millar's sheep got mixed with ourn;" and so he goes on, for bushmen can
seldom write, but they have memories which nothing escapes.

His master writes the cheque and hands it across the table. "Don't get
on the drink, Jimmy," he says.

"No fear of that, master," and the stockman slips the cheque into his
leather pouch, and within an hour he is ambling off upon his long-limbed
horse on his hundred-mile journey to town.

Now Jimmy has to pass some six or eight of the above-mentioned roadside
shanties in his day's ride, and experience has taught him that if he
once breaks his accustomed total abstinence, the unwonted stimulant has
an overpowering effect upon his brain. Jimmy shakes his head warily as
he determines that no earthly consideration will induce him to partake
of any liquor until his business is over. His only chance is to avoid
temptation; so, knowing that there is the first of these houses some
half-mile ahead, he plunges into a byepath through the bush which will
lead him out at the other side.

Jimmy is riding resolutely along this narrow path, congratulating
himself upon a danger escaped, when he becomes aware of a sunburned,
black-bearded man who is leaning unconcernedly against a tree beside the
track. This is none other than the shanty-keeper, who, having observed
Jimmy's manoeuvre in the distance, has taken a short cut through the
bush in order to intercept him.

"Morning, Jimmy!" he cries, as the horseman comes up to him.

"Morning, mate; morning!"

"Where are ye off to to-day then?"

"Off to town," says Jimmy sturdily.

"No, now--are you though? You'll have bully times down there for a bit.
Come round and have a drink at my place. Just by way of luck."

"No," says Jimmy, "I don't want a drink."

"Just a little damp."

"I tell ye I don't want one," says the stockman angrily.

"Well, ye needn't be so darned short about it. It's nothin' to me
whether you drinks or not. Good mornin'."

"Good mornin'," says Jimmy, and has ridden on about twenty yards when he
hears the other calling on him to stop.

"See here, Jimmy!" he says, overtaking him again. "If you'll do me a
kindness when you're up in town I'd be obliged."

"What is it?"

"It's a letter, Jim, as I wants posted. It's an important one too, an'
I wouldn't trust it with every one; but I knows you, and if you'll take
charge on it it'll be a powerful weight off my mind."

"Give it here," Jimmy says laconically.

"I hain't got it here. It's round in my caboose. Come round for it with
me. It ain't more'n quarter of a mile."

Jimmy consents reluctantly. When they reach the tumble-down hut the
keeper asks him cheerily to dismount and to come in.

"Give me the letter," says Jimmy.

"It ain't altogether wrote yet, but you sit down here for a minute and
it'll be right," and so the stockman is beguiled into the shanty.

At last the letter is ready and handed over. "Now, Jimmy," says the
keeper, "one drink at my expense before you go."

"Not a taste," says Jimmy.

"Oh, that's it, is it?" the other says in an aggrieved tone. "You're too
damned proud to drink with a poor cove like me. Here--give us back that
letter. I'm cursed if I'll accept a favour from a man whose too almighty
big to have a drink with me."

"Well, well, mate, don't turn rusty," says Jim. "Give us one drink an'
I'm off."

The keeper pours out about half a pannikin of raw rum and hands it to
the bushman. The moment he smells the old familiar smell his longing for
it returns, and he swigs it off at a gulp. His eyes shine more brightly
and his face becomes flushed. The keeper watches him narrowly. "You can
go now, Jim," he says.

"Steady, mate, steady," says the bushman. "I'm as good a man as you. If
you stand a drink I can stand one too, I suppose." So the pannikin is
replenished, and Jimmy's eyes shine brighter still.

"Now, Jimmy, one last drink for the good of the house," says the keeper,
"and then it's time you were off." The stockman has a third gulp from
the pannikin, and with it all his scruples and good resolutions vanish
for ever.

"Look here," he says somewhat huskily, taking his cheque out of his
pouch. "You take this, mate. Whoever comes along this road, ask 'em what
they'll have, and tell them it's my shout. Let me know when the money's
done."

So Jimmy abandons the idea of ever getting to town, and for three weeks
or a month he lies about the shanty in a state of extreme drunkenness,
and reduces every wayfarer upon the road to the same condition. At last
one fine morning the keeper comes to him. "The coin's done, Jimmy," he
says; "it's about time you made some more." So Jimmy has a good wash to
sober him, straps his blanket and his billy to his back, and rides off
through the bush to the sheeprun, where he has another year of sobriety,
terminating in another month of intoxication.

All this, though typical of the happy-go-lucky manners of the
inhabitants, has no direct bearing upon Jackman's Gulch, so we must
return to that Arcadian settlement. Additions to the population there
were not numerous, and such as came about the time of which I speak were
even rougher and fiercer than the original inhabitants. In particular,
there came a brace of ruffians named Phillips and Maule, who rode into
camp one day, and started a claim upon the other side of the stream.
They outgulched the Gulch in the virulence and fluency of their
blasphemy, in the truculence of their speech and manner, and in their
reckless disregard of all social laws. They claimed to have come from
Bendigo, and there were some amongst us who wished that the redoubted
Conky Jim was on the track once more, as long as he would close it to
such visitors as these. After their arrival the nightly proceedings at
the Britannia bar and at the gambling hell behind it became more riotous
than ever. Violent quarrels, frequently ending in bloodshed, were of
constant occurrence. The more peaceable frequenters of the bar began
to talk seriously of lynching the two strangers who were the principal
promoters of disorder. Things were in this unsatisfactory condition
when our evangelist, Elias B. Hopkins, came limping into the camp,
travel-stained and footsore, with his spade strapped across his back,
and his Bible in the pocket of his moleskin jacket.

His presence was hardly noticed at first, so insignificant was the man.
His manner was quiet and unobtrusive, his face pale, and his figure
fragile. On better acquaintance, however, there was a squareness and
firmness about his clean-shaven lower jaw, and an intelligence in his
widely-opened blue eyes, which marked him as a man of character. He
erected a small hut for himself, and started a claim close to that
occupied by the two strangers who had preceded him. This claim was
chosen with a ludicrous disregard for all practical laws of mining, and
at once stamped the newcomer as being a green hand at his work. It was
piteous to observe him every morning as we passed to our work, digging
and delving with the greatest industry, but, as we knew well, without
the smallest possibility of any result. He would pause for a moment as
we went by, wipe his pale face with his bandanna handkerchief, and
shout out to us a cordial morning greeting, and then fall to again
with redoubled energy. By degrees we got into the way of making a
half-pitying, half-contemptuous inquiry as to how he got on. "I hain't
struck it yet, boys," he would answer cheerily, leaning on his spade,
"but the bedrock lies deep just hereabouts, and I reckon we'll get among
the pay gravel to-day." Day after day he returned the same reply with
unvarying confidence and cheerfulness.

It was not long before he began to show us the stuff that was in him.
One night the proceedings were unusually violent at the drinking saloon.
A rich pocket had been struck during the day, and the striker was
standing treat in a lavish and promiscuous fashion which had reduced
three parts of the settlement to a state of wild intoxication. A
crowd of drunken idlers stood or lay about the bar, cursing, swearing,
shouting, dancing, and here and there firing their pistols into the air
out of pure wantonness. From the interior of the shanty behind there
came a similar chorus. Maule, Phillips, and the roughs who followed them
were in the ascendant, and all order and decency was swept away.

Suddenly, amid this tumult of oaths and drunken cries, men became
conscious of a quiet monotone which underlay all other sounds and
obtruded itself at every pause in the uproar. Gradually first one man
and then another paused to listen, until there was a general cessation
of the hubbub, and every eye was turned in the direction whence this
quiet stream of words flowed. There, mounted upon a barrel, was Elias
B. Hopkins, the newest of the inhabitants of Jackman's Gulch, with a
good-humoured smile upon his resolute face.

He held an open Bible in his hand, and was reading aloud a passage taken
at random--an extract from the Apocalypse, if I remember right. The
words were entirely irrelevant and without the smallest bearing upon the
scene before him, but he plodded on with great unction, waving his left
hand slowly to the cadence of his words.

There was a general shout of laughter and applause at this apparition,
and Jackman's Gulch gathered round the barrel approvingly, under the
impression that this was some ornate joke, and that they were about
to be treated to some mock sermon or parody of the chapter read. When,
however, the reader, having finished the chapter, placidly commenced
another, and having finished that rippled on into another one, the
revellers came to the conclusion that the joke was somewhat too
long-winded. The commencement of yet another chapter confirmed this
opinion, and an angry chorus of shouts and cries, with suggestions as to
gagging the reader or knocking him off the barrel, rose from every side.
In spite of roars and hoots, however, Elias B. Hopkins plodded away at
the Apocalypse with the same serene countenance, looking as ineffably
contented as though the babel around him were the most gratifying
applause. Before long an occasional boot pattered against the barrel or
whistled past our parson's head; but here some of the more orderly of
the inhabitants interfered in favour of peace and order, aided curiously
enough by the afore-mentioned Maule and Phillips, who warmly espoused
the cause of the little Scripture reader. "The little cus has got
grit in him," the latter explained, rearing his bulky red-shirted form
between the crowd and the object of its anger. "His ways ain't our ways,
and we're all welcome to our opinions, and to sling them round from
barrels or otherwise if so minded. What I says and Bill says is, that
when it comes to slingin' boots instead o' words it's too steep by
half, an' if this man's wronged we'll chip in an' see him righted." This
oratorical effort had the effect of checking the more active signs of
disapproval, and the party of disorder attempted to settle down once
more to their carouse, and to ignore the shower of Scripture which was
poured upon them. The attempt was hopeless. The drunken portion fell
asleep under the drowsy refrain, and the others, with many a sullen
glance at the imperturbable reader, slouched off to their huts, leaving
him still perched upon the barrel. Finding himself alone with the more
orderly of the spectators, the little man rose, closed his book, after
methodically marking with a lead pencil the exact spot at which he
stopped, and descended from his perch. "To-morrow night, boys," he
remarked in his quiet voice, "the reading will commence at the 9th verse
of the 15th chapter of the Apocalypse," with which piece of information,
disregarding our congratulations, he walked away with the air of a man
who has performed an obvious duty.

We found that his parting words were no empty threat. Hardly had the
crowd begun to assemble next night before he appeared once more upon the
barrel and began to read with the same monotonous vigour, tripping over
words! muddling up sentences, but still boring along through chapter
after chapter. Laughter, threats, chaff--every weapon short of actual
violence--was used to deter him, but all with the same want of success.
Soon it was found that there was a method in his proceedings. When
silence reigned, or when the conversation was of an innocent nature, the
reading ceased. A single word of blasphemy, however, set it going again,
and it would ramble on for a quarter of an hour or so, when it stopped,
only to be renewed upon similar provocation. The reading was pretty
continuous during that second night, for the language of the opposition
was still considerably free. At least it was an improvement upon the
night before.

For more than a month Elias B. Hopkins carried on this campaign. There
he would sit, night after night, with the open book upon his knee, and
at the slightest provocation off he would go, like a musical box when
the spring is touched. The monotonous drawl became unendurable, but
it could only be avoided by conforming to the parson's code. A chronic
swearer came to be looked upon with disfavour by the community, since
the punishment of his transgression fell upon all. At the end of a
fortnight the reader was silent more than half the time, and at the end
of the month his position was a sinecure.

Never was a moral revolution brought about more rapidly and more
completely. Our parson carried his principle into private life. I have
seen him, on hearing an unguarded word from some worker in the gulches,
rush across, Bible in hand, and perching himself upon the heap of
red clay which surmounted the offender's claim, drawl through the
genealogical tree at the commencement of the New Testament in a most
earnest and impressive manner, as though it were especially appropriate
to the occasion. In time, an oath became a rare thing amongst us.
Drunkenness was on the wane too. Casual travellers passing through the
Gulch used to marvel at our state of grace, and rumours of it went as
far as Ballarat, and excited much comment therein.

There were points about our evangelist which made him especially fitted
for the work which he had undertaken. A man entirely without redeeming
vices would have had no common basis on which to work, and no means of
gaining the sympathy of his flock. As we came to know Elias B. Hopkins
better, we discovered that in spite of his piety there was a leaven of
old Adam in him, and that he had certainly known unregenerate days.
He was no teetotaler. On the contrary, he could choose his liquor with
discrimination, and lower it in an able manner. He played a masterly
hand at poker, and there were few who could touch him at "cut-throat
euchre." He and the two ex-ruffians, Phillips and Maule, used to play
for hours in perfect harmony, except when the fall of the cards elicited
an oath from one of his companions. At the first of these offences
the parson would put on a pained smile, and gaze reproachfully at the
culprit. At the second he would reach for his Bible, and the game was
over for the evening. He showed us he was a good revolver shot too, for
when we were practising at an empty brandy bottle outside Adams' bar, he
took up a friend's pistol and hit it plumb in the centre at twenty-four
paces. There were few things he took up that he could not make a show at
apparently, except gold-digging, and at that he was the veriest duffer
alive. It was pitiful to see the little canvas bag, with his name
printed across it, lying placid and empty upon the shelf at Woburn's
store, while all the other bags were increasing daily, and some had
assumed quite a portly rotundity of form, for the weeks were slipping
by, and it was almost time for the gold-train to start off for Ballarat.
We reckoned that the amount which we had stored at the time represented
the greatest sum which had ever been taken by a single convoy out of
Jackman's Gulch.

Although Elias B. Hopkins appeared to derive a certain quiet
satisfaction from the wonderful change which he had effected in the
camp, his joy was not yet rounded and complete. There was one thing for
which he still yearned. He opened his heart to us about it one evening.

"We'd have a blessing on the camp, boys," he said, "if we only had a
service o' some sort on the Lord's day. It's a temptin' o' Providence
to go on in this way without takin' any notice of it, except that maybe
there's more whisky drunk and more card playin' than on any other day."

"We hain't got no parson," objected one of the crowd.


"Ye fool!" growled another, "hain't we got a man as is worth any three
parsons, and can splash texts around like clay out o' a cradle. What
more d'ye want?"

"We hain't got no church!" urged the same dissentient.

"Have it in the open air," one suggested.

"Or in Woburn's store," said another.

"Or in Adams' saloon."

The last proposal was received with a buzz of approval, which showed
that it was considered the most appropriate locality.

Adams' saloon was a substantial wooden building in the rear of the
bar, which was used partly for storing liquor and partly for a gambling
saloon. It was strongly built of rough-hewn logs, the proprietor rightly
judging, in the unregenerate days of Jackman's Gulch, that hogsheads of
brandy and rum were commodities which had best be secured under lock and
key. A strong door opened into each end of the saloon, and the interior
was spacious enough, when the table and lumber were cleared away,
to accommodate the whole population. The spirit barrels were heaped
together at one end by their owner, so as to make a very fair imitation
of a pulpit.

At first the Gulch took but a mild interest in the proceedings, but
when it became known that Elias B. Hopkins intended, after reading the
service, to address the audience, the settlement began to warm up to
the occasion. A real sermon was a novelty to all of them, and one coming
from their own parson was additionally so. Rumour announced that it
would be interspersed with local hits, and that the moral would be
pointed by pungent personalities. Men began to fear that they would be
unable to gain seats, and many applications were made to the brothers
Adams. It was only when conclusively shown that the saloon could contain
them all with a margin that the camp settled down into calm expectancy.

It was as well that the building was of such a size, for the assembly
upon the Sunday morning was the largest which had ever occurred in
the annals of Jackman's Gulch. At first it was thought that the whole
population was present, but a little reflection showed that this was
not so. Maule and Phillips had gone on a prospecting journey among the
hills, and had not returned as yet, and Woburn, the gold-keeper, was
unable to leave his store. Having a very large quantity of the
precious metal under his charge, he stuck to his post, feeling that the
responsibility was too great to trifle with. With these three exceptions
the whole of the Gulch, with clean red shirts, and such other additions
to their toilet as the occasion demanded, sauntered in a straggling line
along the clayey pathway which led up to the saloon.

The interior of the building had been provided with rough benches, and
the parson, with his quiet good-humoured smile, was standing at the door
to welcome them. "Good morning, boys," he cried cheerily, as each group
came lounging up. "Pass in; pass in. You'll find this is as good a
morning's work as any you've done. Leave your pistols in this barrel
outside the door as you pass; you can pick them out as you come out
again, but it isn't the thing to carry weapons into the house of peace."
His request was good-humouredly complied with, and before the last of
the congregation filed in, there was a strange assortment of knives
and firearms in this depository. When all had assembled, the doors
were shut, and the service began--the first and the last which was ever
performed at Jackman's Gulch.

The weather was sultry and the room close, yet the miners listened with
exemplary patience. There was a sense of novelty in the situation which
had its attractions. To some it was entirely new, others were wafted
back by it to another land and other days. Beyond a disposition which
was exhibited by the uninitiated to applaud at the end of certain
prayers, by way of showing that they sympathised with the sentiments
expressed, no audience could have behaved better. There was a murmur
of interest, however, when Elias B. Hopkins, looking down on the
congregation from his rostrum of casks, began his address.

He had attired himself with care in honour of the occasion. He wore a
velveteen tunic, girt round the waist with a sash of china silk, a pair
of moleskin trousers, and held his cabbage-tree hat in his left hand.
He began speaking in a low tone, and it was noticed at the time that he
frequently glanced through the small aperture which served for a window
which was placed above the heads of those who sat beneath him.

"I've put you straight now," he said, in the course of his address;
"I've got you in the right rut if you will but stick in it." Here he
looked very hard out of the window for some seconds. "You've learned
soberness and industry, and with those things you can always make up any
loss you may sustain. I guess there isn't one of ye that won't remember
my visit to this camp." He paused for a moment, and three revolver shots
rang out upon the quiet summer air. "Keep your seats, damn ye!" roared
our preacher, as his audience rose in excitement. "If a man of ye moves
down he goes! The door's locked on the outside, so ye can't get out
anyhow. Your seats, ye canting, chuckle-headed fools! Down with ye, ye
dogs, or I'll fire among ye!"

Astonishment and fear brought us back into our seats, and we sat staring
blankly at our pastor and each other. Elias B. Hopkins, whose whole face
and even figure appeared to have undergone an extraordinary alteration,
looked fiercely down on us from his commanding position, with a
contemptuous smile on his stern face.

"I have your lives in my hands," he remarked; and we noticed as he spoke
that he held a heavy revolver in his hand, and that the butt of another
one protruded from his sash. "I am armed and you are not. If one of you
moves or speaks he is a dead man. If not, I shall not harm you. You must
wait here for an hour. Why, you FOOLS" (this with a hiss of contempt
which rang in our ears for many a long day), "do you know who it is that
has stuck you up? Do you know who it is that has been playing it upon
you for months as a parson and a saint? Conky Jim, the bushranger, ye
apes. And Phillips and Maule were my two right-hand men. They're off
into the hills with your gold----Ha! would ye?" This to some restive
member of the audience, who quieted down instantly before the fierce eye
and the ready weapon of the bushranger. "In an hour they will be clear
of any pursuit, and I advise you to make the best of it, and not to
follow, or you may lose more than your money. My horse is tethered
outside this door behind me. When the time is up I shall pass through
it, lock it on the outside, and be off. Then you may break your way out
as best you can. I have no more to say to you, except that ye are the
most cursed set of asses that ever trod in boot-leather."

We had time to endorse mentally this outspoken opinion during the long
sixty minutes which followed; we were powerless before the resolute
desperado. It is true that if we made a simultaneous rush we might bear
him down at the cost of eight or ten of our number. But how could such
a rush be organised without speaking, and who would attempt it without a
previous agreement that he would be supported? There was nothing for
it but submission. It seemed three hours at the least before the ranger
snapped up his watch, stepped down from the barrel, walked backwards,
still covering us with his weapon, to the door behind him, and then
passed rapidly through it. We heard the creaking of the rusty lock, and
the clatter of his horse's hoofs, as he galloped away.

It has been remarked that an oath had, for the last few weeks, been a
rare thing in the camp. We made up for our temporary abstention during
the next half-hour. Never was heard such symmetrical and heartfelt
blasphemy. When at last we succeeded in getting the door off its hinges
all sight of both rangers and treasure had disappeared, nor have we ever
caught sight of either the one or the other since. Poor Woburn, true to
his trust, lay shot through the head across the threshold of his empty
store. The villains, Maule and Phillips, had descended upon the camp
the instant that we had been enticed into the trap, murdered the keeper,
loaded up a small cart with the booty, and got safe away to some wild
fastness among the mountains, where they were joined by their wily
leader.

Jackman's Gulch recovered from this blow, and is now a flourishing
township. Social reformers are not in request there, however, and
morality is at a discount. It is said that an inquest has been held
lately upon an unoffending stranger who chanced to remark that in so
large a place it would be advisable to have some form of Sunday service.
The memory of their one and only pastor is still green among the
inhabitants, and will be for many a long year to come.




THE RING OF THOTH.

Mr. John Vansittart Smith, F.R.S., of 147-A Gower Street, was a man
whose energy of purpose and clearness of thought might have placed
him in the very first rank of scientific observers. He was the
victim, however, of a universal ambition which prompted him to aim at
distinction in many subjects rather than preeminence in one.

In his early days he had shown an aptitude for zoology and for botany
which caused his friends to look upon him as a second Darwin, but when
a professorship was almost within his reach he had suddenly discontinued
his studies and turned his whole attention to chemistry. Here his
researches upon the spectra of the metals had won him his fellowship in
the Royal Society; but again he played the coquette with his subject,
and after a year's absence from the laboratory he joined the Oriental
Society, and delivered a paper on the Hieroglyphic and Demotic
inscriptions of El Kab, thus giving a crowning example both of the
versatility and of the inconstancy of his talents.

The most fickle of wooers, however, is apt to be caught at last, and
so it was with John Vansittart Smith. The more he burrowed his way
into Egyptology the more impressed he became by the vast field which it
opened to the inquirer, and by the extreme importance of a subject which
promised to throw a light upon the first germs of human civilisation and
the origin of the greater part of our arts and sciences. So struck was
Mr. Smith that he straightway married an Egyptological young lady who
had written upon the sixth dynasty, and having thus secured a sound
base of operations he set himself to collect materials for a work which
should unite the research of Lepsius and the ingenuity of Champollion.
The preparation of this magnum opus entailed many hurried visits to the
magnificent Egyptian collections of the Louvre, upon the last of which,
no longer ago than the middle of last October, he became involved in a
most strange and noteworthy adventure.

The trains had been slow and the Channel had been rough, so that the
student arrived in Paris in a somewhat befogged and feverish condition.
On reaching the Hotel de France, in the Rue Laffitte, he had thrown
himself upon a sofa for a couple of hours, but finding that he was
unable to sleep, he determined, in spite of his fatigue, to make his way
to the Louvre, settle the point which he had come to decide, and take
the evening train back to Dieppe. Having come to this conclusion, he
donned his greatcoat, for it was a raw rainy day, and made his way
across the Boulevard des Italiens and down the Avenue de l'Opera. Once
in the Louvre he was on familiar ground, and he speedily made his way to
the collection of papyri which it was his intention to consult.

The warmest admirers of John Vansittart Smith could hardly claim for him
that he was a handsome man. His high-beaked nose and prominent chin had
something of the same acute and incisive character which distinguished
his intellect. He held his head in a birdlike fashion, and birdlike,
too, was the pecking motion with which, in conversation, he threw out
his objections and retorts. As he stood, with the high collar of his
greatcoat raised to his ears, he might have seen from the reflection in
the glass-case before him that his appearance was a singular one. Yet it
came upon him as a sudden jar when an English voice behind him exclaimed
in very audible tones, "What a queer-looking mortal!"

The student had a large amount of petty vanity in his composition which
manifested itself by an ostentatious and overdone disregard of all
personal considerations. He straightened his lips and looked rigidly at
the roll of papyrus, while his heart filled with bitterness against the
whole race of travelling Britons.

"Yes," said another voice, "he really is an extraordinary fellow."

"Do you know," said the first speaker, "one could almost believe that by
the continual contemplation of mummies the chap has become half a mummy
himself?"

"He has certainly an Egyptian cast of countenance," said the other.

John Vansittart Smith spun round upon his heel with the intention of
shaming his countrymen by a corrosive remark or two. To his surprise
and relief, the two young fellows who had been conversing had their
shoulders turned towards him, and were gazing at one of the Louvre
attendants who was polishing some brass-work at the other side of the
room.

"Carter will be waiting for us at the Palais Royal," said one tourist to
the other, glancing at his watch, and they clattered away, leaving the
student to his labours.

"I wonder what these chatterers call an Egyptian cast of countenance,"
thought John Vansittart Smith, and he moved his position slightly in
order to catch a glimpse of the man's face. He started as his eyes fell
upon it. It was indeed the very face with which his studies had made
him familiar. The regular statuesque features, broad brow, well-rounded
chin, and dusky complexion were the exact counterpart of the innumerable
statues, mummy-cases, and pictures which adorned the walls of the
apartment.

The thing was beyond all coincidence. The man must be an Egyptian.

The national angularity of the shoulders and narrowness of the hips were
alone sufficient to identify him.

John Vansittart Smith shuffled towards the attendant with some intention
of addressing him. He was not light of touch in conversation, and found
it difficult to strike the happy mean between the brusqueness of the
superior and the geniality of the equal. As he came nearer, the man
presented his side face to him, but kept his gaze still bent upon his
work. Vansittart Smith, fixing his eyes upon the fellow's skin, was
conscious of a sudden impression that there was something inhuman and
preternatural about its appearance. Over the temple and cheek-bone
it was as glazed and as shiny as varnished parchment. There was no
suggestion of pores. One could not fancy a drop of moisture upon that
arid surface. From brow to chin, however, it was cross-hatched by a
million delicate wrinkles, which shot and interlaced as though Nature
in some Maori mood had tried how wild and intricate a pattern she could
devise.

"Ou est la collection de Memphis?" asked the student, with the awkward
air of a man who is devising a question merely for the purpose of
opening a conversation.

"C'est la," replied the man brusquely, nodding his head at the other
side of the room.

"Vous etes un Egyptien, n'est-ce pas?" asked the Englishman.

The attendant looked up and turned his strange dark eyes upon his
questioner. They were vitreous, with a misty dry shininess, such as
Smith had never seen in a human head before. As he gazed into them he
saw some strong emotion gather in their depths, which rose and deepened
until it broke into a look of something akin both to horror and to
hatred.

"Non, monsieur; je suis Francais." The man turned abruptly and bent
low over his polishing. The student gazed at him for a moment in
astonishment, and then turning to a chair in a retired corner behind
one of the doors he proceeded to make notes of his researches among
the papyri. His thoughts, however refused to return into their
natural groove. They would run upon the enigmatical attendant with the
sphinx-like face and the parchment skin.

"Where have I seen such eyes?" said Vansittart Smith to himself. "There
is something saurian about them, something reptilian. There's the
membrana nictitans of the snakes," he mused, bethinking himself of his
zoological studies. "It gives a shiny effect. But there was something
more here. There was a sense of power, of wisdom--so I read them--and
of weariness, utter weariness, and ineffable despair. It may be all
imagination, but I never had so strong an impression. By Jove, I must
have another look at them!" He rose and paced round the Egyptian rooms,
but the man who had excited his curiosity had disappeared.

The student sat down again in his quiet corner, and continued to work
at his notes. He had gained the information which he required from the
papyri, and it only remained to write it down while it was still fresh
in his memory. For a time his pencil travelled rapidly over the paper,
but soon the lines became less level, the words more blurred, and
finally the pencil tinkled down upon the floor, and the head of the
student dropped heavily forward upon his chest.

Tired out by his journey, he slept so soundly in his lonely post behind
the door that neither the clanking civil guard, nor the footsteps of
sightseers, nor even the loud hoarse bell which gives the signal for
closing, were sufficient to arouse him.

Twilight deepened into darkness, the bustle from the Rue de Rivoli waxed
and then waned, distant Notre Dame clanged out the hour of midnight, and
still the dark and lonely figure sat silently in the shadow. It was
not until close upon one in the morning that, with a sudden gasp and an
intaking of the breath, Vansittart Smith returned to consciousness.
For a moment it flashed upon him that he had dropped asleep in
his study-chair at home. The moon was shining fitfully through the
unshuttered window, however, and, as his eye ran along the lines of
mummies and the endless array of polished cases, he remembered clearly
where he was and how he came there. The student was not a nervous man.
He possessed that love of a novel situation which is peculiar to his
race. Stretching out his cramped limbs, he looked at his watch, and
burst into a chuckle as he observed the hour. The episode would make an
admirable anecdote to be introduced into his next paper as a relief
to the graver and heavier speculations. He was a little cold, but
wide awake and much refreshed. It was no wonder that the guardians had
overlooked him, for the door threw its heavy black shadow right across
him.

The complete silence was impressive. Neither outside nor inside was
there a creak or a murmur. He was alone with the dead men of a dead
civilisation. What though the outer city reeked of the garish nineteenth
century! In all this chamber there was scarce an article, from the
shrivelled ear of wheat to the pigment-box of the painter, which had
not held its own against four thousand years. Here was the flotsam and
jetsam washed up by the great ocean of time from that far-off empire.
From stately Thebes, from lordly Luxor, from the great temples of
Heliopolis, from a hundred rifled tombs, these relics had been brought.
The student glanced round at the long silent figures who flickered
vaguely up through the gloom, at the busy toilers who were now so
restful, and he fell into a reverent and thoughtful mood. An unwonted
sense of his own youth and insignificance came over him. Leaning back in
his chair, he gazed dreamily down the long vista of rooms, all
silvery with the moonshine, which extend through the whole wing of the
widespread building. His eyes fell upon the yellow glare of a distant
lamp.

John Vansittart Smith sat up on his chair with his nerves all on edge.
The light was advancing slowly towards him, pausing from time to time,
and then coming jerkily onwards. The bearer moved noiselessly. In the
utter silence there was no suspicion of the pat of a footfall. An idea
of robbers entered the Englishman's head. He snuggled up further into
the corner. The light was two rooms off. Now it was in the next chamber,
and still there was no sound. With something approaching to a thrill of
fear the student observed a face, floating in the air as it were, behind
the flare of the lamp. The figure was wrapped in shadow, but the light
fell full upon the strange eager face. There was no mistaking the
metallic glistening eyes and the cadaverous skin. It was the attendant
with whom he had conversed.

Vansittart Smith's first impulse was to come forward and address him. A
few words of explanation would set the matter clear, and lead doubtless
to his being conducted to some side door from which he might make his
way to his hotel. As the man entered the chamber, however, there
was something so stealthy in his movements, and so furtive in his
expression, that the Englishman altered his intention. This was clearly
no ordinary official walking the rounds. The fellow wore felt-soled
slippers, stepped with a rising chest, and glanced quickly from left
to right, while his hurried gasping breathing thrilled the flame of
his lamp. Vansittart Smith crouched silently back into the corner and
watched him keenly, convinced that his errand was one of secret and
probably sinister import.

There was no hesitation in the other's movements. He stepped lightly and
swiftly across to one of the great cases, and, drawing a key from his
pocket, he unlocked it. From the upper shelf he pulled down a mummy,
which he bore away with him, and laid it with much care and solicitude
upon the ground. By it he placed his lamp, and then squatting down
beside it in Eastern fashion he began with long quivering fingers to
undo the cerecloths and bandages which girt it round. As the crackling
rolls of linen peeled off one after the other, a strong aromatic odour
filled the chamber, and fragments of scented wood and of spices pattered
down upon the marble floor.

It was clear to John Vansittart Smith that this mummy had never been
unswathed before. The operation interested him keenly. He thrilled all
over with curiosity, and his birdlike head protruded further and further
from behind the door. When, however, the last roll had been removed from
the four-thousand-year-old head, it was all that he could do to stifle
an outcry of amazement. First, a cascade of long, black, glossy tresses
poured over the workman's hands and arms. A second turn of the bandage
revealed a low, white forehead, with a pair of delicately arched
eyebrows. A third uncovered a pair of bright, deeply fringed eyes, and
a straight, well-cut nose, while a fourth and last showed a sweet, full,
sensitive mouth, and a beautifully curved chin. The whole face was one
of extraordinary loveliness, save for the one blemish that in the centre
of the forehead there was a single irregular, coffee- splotch.
It was a triumph of the embalmer's art. Vansittart Smith's eyes grew
larger and larger as he gazed upon it, and he chirruped in his throat
with satisfaction.

Its effect upon the Egyptologist was as nothing, however, compared with
that which it produced upon the strange attendant. He threw his hands
up into the air, burst into a harsh clatter of words, and then, hurling
himself down upon the ground beside the mummy, he threw his arms round
her, and kissed her repeatedly upon the lips and brow. "Ma petite!" he
groaned in French. "Ma pauvre petite!" His voice broke with emotion, and
his innumerable wrinkles quivered and writhed, but the student observed
in the lamplight that his shining eyes were still as dry and tearless
as two beads of steel. For some minutes he lay, with a twitching face,
crooning and moaning over the beautiful head. Then he broke into a
sudden smile, said some words in an unknown tongue, and sprang to his
feet with the vigorous air of one who has braced himself for an effort.

In the centre of the room there was a large circular case which
contained, as the student had frequently remarked, a magnificent
collection of early Egyptian rings and precious stones. To this the
attendant strode, and, unlocking it, he threw it open. On the ledge at
the side he placed his lamp, and beside it a small earthenware jar which
he had drawn from his pocket. He then took a handful of rings from the
case, and with a most serious and anxious face he proceeded to smear
each in turn with some liquid substance from the earthen pot, holding
them to the light as he did so. He was clearly disappointed with the
first lot, for he threw them petulantly back into the case, and drew out
some more. One of these, a massive ring with a large crystal set in it,
he seized and eagerly tested with the contents of the jar. Instantly
he uttered a cry of joy, and threw out his arms in a wild gesture which
upset the pot and sent the liquid streaming across the floor to the very
feet of the Englishman. The attendant drew a red handkerchief from his
bosom, and, mopping up the mess, he followed it into the corner, where
in a moment he found himself face to face with his observer.

"Excuse me," said John Vansittart Smith, with all imaginable politeness;
"I have been unfortunate enough to fall asleep behind this door."

"And you have been watching me?" the other asked in English, with a most
venomous look on his corpse-like face.

The student was a man of veracity. "I confess," said he, "that I have
noticed your movements, and that they have aroused my curiosity and
interest in the highest degree."

The man drew a long flamboyant-bladed knife from his bosom. "You have
had a very narrow escape," he said; "had I seen you ten minutes ago, I
should have driven this through your heart. As it is, if you touch me or
interfere with me in any way you are a dead man."

"I have no wish to interfere with you," the student answered. "My
presence here is entirely accidental. All I ask is that you will have
the extreme kindness to show me out through some side door." He spoke
with great suavity, for the man was still pressing the tip of his dagger
against the palm of his left hand, as though to assure himself of its
sharpness, while his face preserved its malignant expression.

"If I thought----" said he. "But no, perhaps it is as well. What is your
name?"

The Englishman gave it.

"Vansittart Smith," the other repeated. "Are you the same Vansittart
Smith who gave a paper in London upon El Kab? I saw a report of it. Your
knowledge of the subject is contemptible."

"Sir!" cried the Egyptologist.

"Yet it is superior to that of many who make even greater pretensions.
The whole keystone of our old life in Egypt was not the inscriptions or
monuments of which you make so much, but was our hermetic philosophy and
mystic knowledge, of which you say little or nothing."

"Our old life!" repeated the scholar, wide-eyed; and then suddenly,
"Good God, look at the mummy's face!"

The strange man turned and flashed his light upon the dead woman,
uttering a long doleful cry as he did so. The action of the air had
already undone all the art of the embalmer. The skin had fallen away,
the eyes had sunk inwards, the discoloured lips had writhed away from
the yellow teeth, and the brown mark upon the forehead alone showed that
it was indeed the same face which had shown such youth and beauty a few
short minutes before.

The man flapped his hands together in grief and horror. Then mastering
himself by a strong effort he turned his hard eyes once more upon the
Englishman.

"It does not matter," he said, in a shaking voice. "It does not
really matter. I came here to-night with the fixed determination to
do something. It is now done. All else is as nothing. I have found my
quest. The old curse is broken. I can rejoin her. What matter about her
inanimate shell so long as her spirit is awaiting me at the other side
of the veil!"

"These are wild words," said Vansittart Smith. He was becoming more and
more convinced that he had to do with a madman.

"Time presses, and I must go," continued the other. "The moment is at
hand for which I have waited this weary time. But I must show you out
first. Come with me."

Taking up the lamp, he turned from the disordered chamber, and led the
student swiftly through the long series of the Egyptian, Assyrian, and
Persian apartments. At the end of the latter he pushed open a small door
let into the wall and descended a winding stone stair. The Englishman
felt the cold fresh air of the night upon his brow. There was a door
opposite him which appeared to communicate with the street. To the right
of this another door stood ajar, throwing a spurt of yellow light across
the passage. "Come in here!" said the attendant shortly.

Vansittart Smith hesitated. He had hoped that he had come to the end
of his adventure. Yet his curiosity was strong within him. He could not
leave the matter unsolved, so he followed his strange companion into the
lighted chamber.

It was a small room, such as is devoted to a concierge. A wood fire
sparkled in the grate. At one side stood a truckle bed, and at the other
a coarse wooden chair, with a round table in the centre, which bore the
remains of a meal. As the visitor's eye glanced round he could not but
remark with an ever-recurring thrill that all the small details of
the room were of the most quaint design and antique workmanship. The
candlesticks, the vases upon the chimney-piece, the fire-irons, the
ornaments upon the walls, were all such as he had been wont to associate
with the remote past. The gnarled heavy-eyed man sat himself down upon
the edge of the bed, and motioned his guest into the chair.

"There may be design in this," he said, still speaking excellent
English. "It may be decreed that I should leave some account behind as a
warning to all rash mortals who would set their wits up against workings
of Nature. I leave it with you. Make such use as you will of it. I speak
to you now with my feet upon the threshold of the other world.

"I am, as you surmised, an Egyptian--not one of the down-trodden race
of slaves who now inhabit the Delta of the Nile, but a survivor of that
fiercer and harder people who tamed the Hebrew, drove the Ethiopian back
into the southern deserts, and built those mighty works which have been
the envy and the wonder of all after generations. It was in the reign
of Tuthmosis, sixteen hundred years before the birth of Christ, that
I first saw the light. You shrink away from me. Wait, and you will see
that I am more to be pitied than to be feared.

"My name was Sosra. My father had been the chief priest of Osiris in
the great temple of Abaris, which stood in those days upon the Bubastic
branch of the Nile. I was brought up in the temple and was trained in
all those mystic arts which are spoken of in your own Bible. I was
an apt pupil. Before I was sixteen I had learned all which the wisest
priest could teach me. From that time on I studied Nature's secrets for
myself, and shared my knowledge with no man.

"Of all the questions which attracted me there were none over which I
laboured so long as over those which concern themselves with the nature
of life. I probed deeply into the vital principle. The aim of medicine
had been to drive away disease when it appeared. It seemed to me that a
method might be devised which should so fortify the body as to prevent
weakness or death from ever taking hold of it. It is useless that I
should recount my researches. You would scarce comprehend them if I
did. They were carried out partly upon animals, partly upon slaves, and
partly on myself. Suffice it that their result was to furnish me with a
substance which, when injected into the blood, would endow the body with
strength to resist the effects of time, of violence, or of disease. It
would not indeed confer immortality, but its potency would endure for
many thousands of years. I used it upon a cat, and afterwards drugged
the creature with the most deadly poisons. That cat is alive in Lower
Egypt at the present moment. There was nothing of mystery or magic in
the matter. It was simply a chemical discovery, which may well be made
again.

"Love of life runs high in the young. It seemed to me that I had broken
away from all human care now that I had abolished pain and driven death
to such a distance. With a light heart I poured the accursed stuff into
my veins. Then I looked round for some one whom I could benefit. There
was a young priest of Thoth, Parmes by name, who had won my goodwill by
his earnest nature and his devotion to his studies. To him I whispered
my secret, and at his request I injected him with my elixir. I should
now, I reflected, never be without a companion of the same age as
myself.

"After this grand discovery I relaxed my studies to some extent, but
Parmes continued his with redoubled energy. Every day I could see him
working with his flasks and his distiller in the Temple of Thoth, but
he said little to me as to the result of his labours. For my own part,
I used to walk through the city and look around me with exultation as
I reflected that all this was destined to pass away, and that only I
should remain. The people would bow to me as they passed me, for the
fame of my knowledge had gone abroad.

"There was war at this time, and the Great King had sent down his
soldiers to the eastern boundary to drive away the Hyksos. A Governor,
too, was sent to Abaris, that he might hold it for the King. I had heard
much of the beauty of the daughter of this Governor, but one day as
I walked out with Parmes we met her, borne upon the shoulders of her
slaves. I was struck with love as with lightning. My heart went out from
me. I could have thrown myself beneath the feet of her bearers. This was
my woman. Life without her was impossible. I swore by the head of Horus
that she should be mine. I swore it to the Priest of Thoth. He turned
away from me with a brow which was as black as midnight.

"There is no need to tell you of our wooing. She came to love me even
as I loved her. I learned that Parmes had seen her before I did, and had
shown her that he too loved her, but I could smile at his passion, for
I knew that her heart was mine. The white plague had come upon the city
and many were stricken, but I laid my hands upon the sick and nursed
them without fear or scathe. She marvelled at my daring. Then I told her
my secret, and begged her that she would let me use my art upon her.

"'Your flower shall then be unwithered, Atma,' I said. 'Other things
may pass away, but you and I, and our great love for each other, shall
outlive the tomb of King Chefru.'

"But she was full of timid, maidenly objections. 'Was it right?' she
asked, 'was it not a thwarting of the will of the gods? If the great
Osiris had wished that our years should be so long, would he not himself
have brought it about?'

"With fond and loving words I overcame her doubts, and yet she
hesitated. It was a great question, she said. She would think it over
for this one night. In the morning I should know her resolution. Surely
one night was not too much to ask. She wished to pray to Isis for help
in her decision.

"With a sinking heart and a sad foreboding of evil I left her with her
tirewomen. In the morning, when the early sacrifice was over, I hurried
to her house. A frightened slave met me upon the steps. Her mistress
was ill, she said, very ill. In a frenzy I broke my way through the
attendants, and rushed through hall and corridor to my Atma's chamber.
She lay upon her couch, her head high upon the pillow, with a pallid
face and a glazed eye. On her forehead there blazed a single angry
purple patch. I knew that hell-mark of old. It was the scar of the white
plague, the sign-manual of death.

"Why should I speak of that terrible time? For months I was mad,
fevered, delirious, and yet I could not die. Never did an Arab thirst
after the sweet wells as I longed after death. Could poison or steel
have shortened the thread of my existence, I should soon have rejoined
my love in the land with the narrow portal. I tried, but it was of no
avail. The accursed influence was too strong upon me. One night as I lay
upon my couch, weak and weary, Parmes, the priest of Thoth, came to my
chamber. He stood in the circle of the lamplight, and he looked down
upon me with eyes which were bright with a mad joy.

"'Why did you let the maiden die?' he asked; 'why did you not strengthen
her as you strengthened me?'

"'I was too late,' I answered. 'But I had forgot. You also loved her.
You are my fellow in misfortune. Is it not terrible to think of the
centuries which must pass ere we look upon her again? Fools, fools, that
we were to take death to be our enemy!'

"'You may say that,' he cried with a wild laugh; 'the words come well
from your lips. For me they have no meaning.'

"'What mean you?' I cried, raising myself upon my elbow. 'Surely,
friend, this grief has turned your brain.' His face was aflame with joy,
and he writhed and shook like one who hath a devil.

"'Do you know whither I go?' he asked.

"'Nay,' I answered, 'I cannot tell.'

"'I go to her,' said he. 'She lies embalmed in the further tomb by the
double palm-tree beyond the city wall.'

"'Why do you go there?' I asked.

"'To die!' he shrieked, 'to die! I am not bound by earthen fetters.'

"'But the elixir is in your blood,' I cried.

"'I can defy it,' said he; 'I have found a stronger principle which will
destroy it. It is working in my veins at this moment, and in an hour I
shall be a dead man. I shall join her, and you shall remain behind.'

"As I looked upon him I could see that he spoke words of truth. The
light in his eye told me that he was indeed beyond the power of the
elixir.

"'You will teach me!' I cried.

"'Never!' he answered.

"'I implore you, by the wisdom of Thoth, by the majesty of Anubis!'

"'It is useless,' he said coldly.

"'Then I will find it out,' I cried.

"'You cannot,' he answered; 'it came to me by chance. There is one
ingredient which you can never get. Save that which is in the ring of
Thoth, none will ever more be made.

"'In the ring of Thoth!' I repeated; 'where then is the ring of Thoth?'

"'That also you shall never know,' he answered. 'You won her love.
Who has won in the end? I leave you to your sordid earth life. My
chains are broken. I must go!' He turned upon his heel and fled from the
chamber. In the morning came the news that the Priest of Thoth was dead.

"My days after that were spent in study. I must find this subtle poison
which was strong enough to undo the elixir. From early dawn to midnight
I bent over the test-tube and the furnace. Above all, I collected the
papyri and the chemical flasks of the Priest of Thoth. Alas! they taught
me little. Here and there some hint or stray expression would raise hope
in my bosom, but no good ever came of it. Still, month after month, I
struggled on. When my heart grew faint I would make my way to the tomb
by the palm-trees. There, standing by the dead casket from which the
jewel had been rifled, I would feel her sweet presence, and would
whisper to her that I would rejoin her if mortal wit could solve the
riddle.

"Parmes had said that his discovery was connected with the ring of
Thoth. I had some remembrance of the trinket. It was a large and weighty
circlet, made, not of gold, but of a rarer and heavier metal brought
from the mines of Mount Harbal. Platinum, you call it. The ring had,
I remembered, a hollow crystal set in it, in which some few drops of
liquid might be stored. Now, the secret of Parmes could not have to do
with the metal alone, for there were many rings of that metal in the
Temple. Was it not more likely that he had stored his precious poison
within the cavity of the crystal? I had scarce come to this conclusion
before, in hunting through his papers, I came upon one which told me
that it was indeed so, and that there was still some of the liquid
unused.

"But how to find the ring? It was not upon him when he was stripped
for the embalmer. Of that I made sure. Neither was it among his private
effects. In vain I searched every room that he had entered, every box,
and vase, and chattel that he had owned. I sifted the very sand of the
desert in the places where he had been wont to walk; but, do what I
would, I could come upon no traces of the ring of Thoth. Yet it may be
that my labours would have overcome all obstacles had it not been for a
new and unlooked-for misfortune.

"A great war had been waged against the Hyksos, and the Captains of the
Great King had been cut off in the desert, with all their bowmen and
horsemen. The shepherd tribes were upon us like the locusts in a dry
year. From the wilderness of Shur to the great bitter lake there was
blood by day and fire by night. Abaris was the bulwark of Egypt, but
we could not keep the savages back. The city fell. The Governor and the
soldiers were put to the sword, and I, with many more, was led away into
captivity.

"For years and years I tended cattle in the great plains by the
Euphrates. My master died, and his son grew old, but I was still as far
from death as ever. At last I escaped upon a swift camel, and made my
way back to Egypt. The Hyksos had settled in the land which they had
conquered, and their own King ruled over the country. Abaris had been
torn down, the city had been burned, and of the great Temple there was
nothing left save an unsightly mound. Everywhere the tombs had been
rifled and the monuments destroyed. Of my Atma's grave no sign was
left. It was buried in the sands of the desert, and the palm-trees
which marked the spot had long disappeared. The papers of Parmes and the
remains of the Temple of Thoth were either destroyed or scattered far
and wide over the deserts of Syria. All search after them was vain.

"From that time I gave up all hope of ever finding the ring or
discovering the subtle drug. I set myself to live as patiently as
might be until the effect of the elixir should wear away. How can you
understand how terrible a thing time is, you who have experience only of
the narrow course which lies between the cradle and the grave! I know it
to my cost, I who have floated down the whole stream of history. I was
old when Ilium fell. I was very old when Herodotus came to Memphis. I
was bowed down with years when the new gospel came upon earth. Yet you
see me much as other men are, with the cursed elixir still sweetening my
blood, and guarding me against that which I would court. Now at last, at
last I have come to the end of it!

"I have travelled in all lands and I have dwelt with all nations. Every
tongue is the same to me. I learned them all to help pass the weary
time. I need not tell you how slowly they drifted by, the long dawn
of modern civilisation, the dreary middle years, the dark times of
barbarism. They are all behind me now, I have never looked with the eyes
of love upon another woman. Atma knows that I have been constant to her.

"It was my custom to read all that the scholars had to say upon Ancient
Egypt. I have been in many positions, sometimes affluent, sometimes
poor, but I have always found enough to enable me to buy the journals
which deal with such matters. Some nine months ago I was in San
Francisco, when I read an account of some discoveries made in the
neighbourhood of Abaris. My heart leapt into my mouth as I read it.
It said that the excavator had busied himself in exploring some tombs
recently unearthed. In one there had been found an unopened mummy with
an inscription upon the outer case setting forth that it contained
the body of the daughter of the Governor of the city in the days of
Tuthmosis. It added that on removing the outer case there had been
exposed a large platinum ring set with a crystal, which had been laid
upon the breast of the embalmed woman. This, then was where Parmes
had hid the ring of Thoth. He might well say that it was safe, for no
Egyptian would ever stain his soul by moving even the outer case of a
buried friend.

"That very night I set off from San Francisco, and in a few weeks I
found myself once more at Abaris, if a few sand-heaps and crumbling
walls may retain the name of the great city. I hurried to the Frenchmen
who were digging there and asked them for the ring. They replied that
both the ring and the mummy had been sent to the Boulak Museum at Cairo.
To Boulak I went, but only to be told that Mariette Bey had claimed them
and had shipped them to the Louvre. I followed them, and there at last,
in the Egyptian chamber, I came, after close upon four thousand years,
upon the remains of my Atma, and upon the ring for which I had sought so
long.

"But how was I to lay hands upon them? How was I to have them for my
very own? It chanced that the office of attendant was vacant. I went
to the Director. I convinced him that I knew much about Egypt. In my
eagerness I said too much. He remarked that a Professor's chair would
suit me better than a seat in the Conciergerie. I knew more, he said,
than he did. It was only by blundering, and letting him think that he
had over-estimated my knowledge, that I prevailed upon him to let me
move the few effects which I have retained into this chamber. It is my
first and my last night here.

"Such is my story, Mr. Vansittart Smith. I need not say more to a man of
your perception. By a strange chance you have this night looked upon the
face of the woman whom I loved in those far-off days. There were many
rings with crystals in the case, and I had to test for the platinum to
be sure of the one which I wanted. A glance at the crystal has shown me
that the liquid is indeed within it, and that I shall at last be able
to shake off that accursed health which has been worse to me than the
foulest disease. I have nothing more to say to you. I have unburdened
myself. You may tell my story or you may withhold it at your pleasure.
The choice rests with you. I owe you some amends, for you have had a
narrow escape of your life this night. I was a desperate man, and not
to be baulked in my purpose. Had I seen you before the thing was done,
I might have put it beyond your power to oppose me or to raise an alarm.
This is the door. It leads into the Rue de Rivoli. Good night!"

The Englishman glanced back. For a moment the lean figure of Sosra
the Egyptian stood framed in the narrow doorway. The next the door had
slammed, and the heavy rasping of a bolt broke on the silent night.

It was on the second day after his return to London that Mr. John
Vansittart Smith saw the following concise narrative in the Paris
correspondence of the Times:--

"Curious Occurrence in the Louvre.--Yesterday morning a strange
discovery was made in the principal Egyptian Chamber. The ouvriers who
are employed to clean out the rooms in the morning found one of the
attendants lying dead upon the floor with his arms round one of the
mummies. So close was his embrace that it was only with the utmost
difficulty that they were separated. One of the cases containing
valuable rings had been opened and rifled. The authorities are of
opinion that the man was bearing away the mummy with some idea of
selling it to a private collector, but that he was struck down in the
very act by long-standing disease of the heart. It is said that he was a
man of uncertain age and eccentric habits, without any living relations
to mourn over his dramatic and untimely end."





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Captain of the Pole-Star and Other
Tales, by Arthur Conan Doyle

*** 