Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.


   "Dost thou remember, soldier old and hoary,
     The days we fought and conquered, side by side,
    On fields of bank, famous now in story,
     Where Britons triumphed, And where Britons died?"

      *     *     *     *     *     *     *

   "Dost thou remember all those marches weary,
     From gathering foes, to reach Coruña's shore?
    Who can forget that midnight sad and dreary,
     When in his grave we laid the noble Moore?
    But ere he died, our General heard us cheering
     And saw us charge with Victory's flag unfurled,—
    And then he slept, without a moment's fearing
     For British soldiers conquering all the world."

                                      NORMAN MACLEOD.



[Illustration: His sabre descended in one swift sweep.
 Frontispiece.]



                            ROY

                   A TALE IN THE DAYS OF

                      SIR JOHN MOORE


                            BY
                      AGNES GIBERNE

                AUTHOR OF "COULYNG CASTLE"
         "AIMÉE, A TALE OF THE DAYS OF JAMES II."
                        ETC. ETC.



                  "Duris non Frangor"



                         LONDON
               C. ARTHUR PEARSON, LIMITED
                     HENRIETTA STREET
                          1901



                       DEDICATED
                BY EXPRESS PERMISSION
                           TO
              FIELD-MARSHAL THE RIGHT HON.

               G. J. VISCOUNT WOLSELEY

         K.P., G.C.B., G.C.M.G., COL.R.H.G.

                   COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF
                 VICTOR AT TEL-EL-KEBIR
                       ETC. ETC.




                         PREFACE

IN the following pages I have tried to give a faithful picture of life
in England and in France during the first decade of the Nineteenth
Century. The invasion scare, the state of National feeling in our land,
the conditions which prevailed among British prisoners in France,
the descriptions of French conscripts and French dungeons, etc., are
in accordance with reality. My authorities have been many, including
volumes written and published at the time, long since out of print. One
chief authority for dungeon-scenes is the "Narrative" of Major-General
Lord Blayney, himself four years a captive at Verdun and elsewhere; but
his account by no means stands alone. My aim has been in no case to
overdraw, but to be true to those things which actually were.

Some old MS. letters, handed down in my own family, belonging to that
date, have been no inconsiderable help.

In the central figure of the tale I have sought to draw a portrait,
true again to life, of him who in an age of British heroes ranked par
excellence as England's foremost soldier-hero; of him about whom,
twenty years later, Sir George Napier wrote—"That great and good
soldier ... to whom I looked up as the first of men;" of him about
whom, half a lifetime after the Battle of Coruña, Sir Charles Napier,
the famous conqueror of Scinde, could sadly say—"Thirty-eight years ago
the great Moore fell: I have never seen his equal since!"

To these past testimonies may be added that of Lord Wolseley, who
has kindly granted his permission for the dedication of this book
to himself. In a speech made not long ago, Lord Wolseley spoke of
Moore as "one of the greatest soldiers we ever had," who, "if he had
not been killed at Coruña, would probably have been the Commander in
the Peninsular Wars, and have won the great battle which annihilated
Napoleon's power at Waterloo."

And indeed, the extraordinary lustre of Sir John Moore's character and
career, together with the radiant glory with which the close of his
life was crowned, form a picture scarcely to be excelled. No man ever
lived more exclusively, or fought with more absolute self-abandonment,
for his country—"that country," to quote once more from Sir George
Napier, "which he loved with an ardour equal to the Roman patriot's,
and had served to the hour of his death with a zeal and gallantry
equalled by few, surpassed by none." This at a time, it may be added,
when the very existence of Great Britain as a Nation was at stake.

Perhaps the best clue to the keynote of Moore's history may be found in
a sentence culled from one of his letters to his mother—"And so I hope
that, whatever happens, England will not be able to say we have not
done our duty."

  EASTBOURNE,
       August 1900.



CONTENTS

CHAP.

      I. A TRIP TO PARIS IN 1803

     II. SWEET POLLY'S GRENADIER

    III. A MAN AMONG TEN THOUSAND

     IV. DOLEFUL TIDINGS

      V. GENERAL INDIGNATION

     VI. THE DUKE'S PARTICULAR FRIEND

    VII. PRISONERS OF WAR

   VIII. THE THREATENED INVASION

     IX. OUR HERO

      X. THE FRENCH FLEET SIGNALLED

     XI. A MISTAKEN READING

    XII. ORDERED TO VERDUN

   XIII. A FRENCH CONSCRIPT

    XIV. IN A FORTIFIED TOWN

     XV. FROM OVER THE WATER

    XVI. ORDERED TO VALENCIENNES

   XVII. IN THE YEAR 1807

  XVIII. ALTERED LOOKS

    XIX. ROY'S IMPRUDENCE

     XX. ORDERED TO BITCHE

    XXI. A GLIMPSE OF LOVELY POLLY

   XXII. THE WAY OF THE WIND

  XXIII. IN VIEW OF CAPTAIN PEIRCE

   XXIV. A BITTER EXPERIENCE

    XXV. LIFE IN A FRENCH DUNGEON

   XXVI. A PRISON TRAGEDY

  XXVII. A BARRED WINDOW

 XXVIII. MOST FRIENDLY OF FRENCHMEN

   XXIX. THE DEAR OLD COUNTRY

    XXX. SIR JOHN MOORE

   XXXI. ORDERED TO SPAIN

  XXXII. TWO MIGHTY MEN

 XXXIII. CAPTIVES STILL

  XXXIV. AT SALAMANCA

   XXXV. MOORE'S BOLD VENTURE

  XXXVI. A HAZARDOUS RETREAT

 XXXVII. A VISIT FROM MOORE BY NIGHT

XXXVIII. THE BATTLE OF CORUÑA

  XXXIX. MOORE'S LAST VICTORY

     XL. A WARRIOR TAKING HIS REST

    XLI. AT VERDUN ONCE MORE

   XLII. LUCILLE'S APPEAL

  XLIII. THE RELEASE OF ONE



                       ILLUSTRATIONS

HIS SABRE DESCENDED IN ONE SWIFT SWEEP  Frontispiece

PROMPTLY DOWN UPON THIS WITH BOTH KNEES WENT THE TALL GRENADIER

HE MOUNTED AND RODE OFF

"I SAY, HADN'T YOU BETTER GIVE ME THAT LITTLE THING TO HOLD?"

HE HAD TO WORK AT THE BAR IN A DIFFICULT AND CRAMPED POSITION

SIR JOHN GLANCED ROUND BEFORE SPEAKING



                            ROY

                   A TALE IN THE DAYS OF

                      SIR JOHN MOORE

CHAPTER I

A TRIP TO PARIS IN 1803

"YOU don't mean to say it, my dear sir? You're absolutely jesting.
I'm compelled to believe that you are pleased to talk nonsense. To take
the boy! Impossible!"

"I never was more sober in my life, I do assure you, ma'am."

"The thing is incredible. No, sir, I cannot believe it. 'Tis bad enough
that you should be going abroad at all, at this time—you and your wife.
But to place an innocent babe of nine years in the power of that wicked
Corsican! Twelve years old, say you! Nay, the twins' birthday is not
till June. Roy is but eleven yet, and none would guess him to be over
nine. Well, well, 'tis much the same. My dear sir, war is a certainty.
We shall be embroiled with France before six weeks are ended."

"That is as may be. We intend to be at home again long before six weeks
are gone by. A fortnight in Paris—nothing more. The opportunity is not
to be lost; and as you know, all the world is going to Paris. So pray
be easy in your mind."

Colonel Baron adjusted his rigid stock, and held his square chin aloft,
looking over it with a benevolent though combative air towards the lady
opposite. Mrs. Bryce was a family friend of long standing, and she
might say what she chose. But nothing was further from his intentions
than to alter his plans, merely because Mrs. Bryce or Mrs. Anybody Else
chose to volunteer unasked advice. There was a spice of obstinacy in
the gallant Colonel's composition.

Despite civilian dress—swallow-tailed coat, brass buttons, long flapped
waistcoat, white frilled shirt-front, and velvet knee-breeches, with
silk stockings—the Colonel was a thorough soldier in appearance. He had
not yet left middle age behind, and he was still spare in figure, and
upright as a dart.

Mrs. Bryce, a lively woman, in age perhaps somewhere about thirty-five,
had bright twinkling eyes. She was dressed much à la mode, in the then
fashionable figured muslin, made long and clinging, her white stockings
and velvet shoes showing through it in front. The bonnet was of bright
blue; and a silk spencer, of the same colour, was cut low, a large
handkerchief covering her shoulders. A short veil descended below her
eyes. She used her hands a good deal, flirting them about as she talked.

Upon an old-fashioned sofa, with prim high back and arms, and a long
'sofa-table' in front, sat the Colonel's wife, Mrs. Baron, a very
graceful figure, young still, and in manner slightly languishing.
Though it was early in the afternoon, she wore a low-necked frock,
with a scarf over it; and her fair hands toyed with a handsome fan.
A white crape turban was wound about her head. Beside her was Mr.
Bryce, a short man, clothed in blue swallow-tailed coat and brass
buttons—frock-coats being then unknown. His face was deeply scored and
corrugated with smallpox.

The wide low room, with its large centre-table and ponderous
furniture, had one other inmate, and this was a lovely young girl, in
a short-waisted and short-sleeved frock of white muslin. A pink scarf
was round her neck; dainty pink sandalled shoes were on her small
high-instepped feet; long kid gloves covered the slender round arms; a
fur-trimmed pink pelisse lay on a chair near; and from the huge pink
bonnet on her head tall white ostrich feathers pointed skyward. Polly
Keene was on a visit to the Barons, and she had just come in from a
stroll with Mr. and Mrs. Bryce. Young ladies, ninety or a hundred years
ago, did not commonly venture alone beyond the garden, but waited for
proper protection. Polly had the softest brown velvet eyes imaginable,
a delicate blush-rose complexion, and a pretty, arch manner.

Upon a side-table stood cake and wine, together with a piled up pyramid
of fruit, for the benefit of callers. Afternoon tea was an unknown
institution; and the fashionable dinner-hour varied between four and
half-past five o'clock.

"A fortnight in Paris! And what of Nap meanwhile?" vivaciously demanded
Mrs. Bryce. "What of old Boney? That is the question, my dear sir. What
may not that wicked tyrant be after next?"

"Buonaparte has a good deal to answer for, ma'am, but I do not imagine
that he will have the responsibility of hindering this little scheme of
ours."

Mrs. Bryce turned herself briskly towards the sofa.

"If I were you, Harriette, I'd refuse to go. Then at least you will not
have it on your conscience, if everything gets askew."

Mrs. Baron's large grey eyes gazed dreamily towards the speaker.

"My dear Harriette, wake up, I entreat of you. Pray listen to me.
Doubtless all the world is off to France. Nothing more likely, since
half the world consists of idiots, and another half of madmen. That is
small reason why you two need to comport yourselves like either."

"Do you truly suppose there will be war again so soon?" asked Mrs.
Baron incredulously.

"Do I suppose? Why, everybody knows it. Colonel Baron knows it. There
can't be any reasonable doubt about the matter. The Treaty of Amiens
is practically at an end already. Nap has broken his pledges again
and again. And this last demand of his—why, nothing could be more
iniquitous."

"Dear me, has he made any fresh demand?" Mrs. Baron's eyes went in
appeal to her husband, for she had no great faith in Mrs. Bryce's
judgment. The Colonel had no chance of responding.

"Even you can't sure have forgot that, my dear Harriette! He desires
that we should give over to his tender mercies the unfortunate Bourbon
Princes who have fled to us for refuge. And no doubt in the end he
would demand all the refugees of the Revolution. He might as well
demand England herself! And he will demand that too, in no long time.
'Tis an open secret that he is already making preparations for the
invasion of our country."

"Boney does not believe that England, single-handed, will dare to
oppose him," remarked Mr. Bryce. "He considers that a nation of
seventeen million inhabitants is certain to go down before a nation of
forty millions."

"Let him but come, and he'll learn his mistake," declared the valiant
lady. "But you, Harriette—with public affairs in this state—you
positively intend to let your crazy husband drag you across the
Channel!"

"But I do not think my husband crazy, and I wish very much to go," she
said, slightly pouting. "I have never been out of England. The wars
have always hindered me, when I could have gone."

"And you absolutely mean to take the young ones, too!"

"We intend to take Roy," said the Colonel, as his wife's eyes once more
appealed to him.

"I never heard such a scheme in my life! To take the boy away from his
schooling—"

"No; his school has just been broken up for some weeks. Several cases
of smallpox; so it is considered best."

"And Molly! Not Molly too?"

"No, not Molly. One will be enough." Colonel Baron did not wish to
betray that he had strenuously opposed the plan, and had given in with
reluctance to his wife's entreaties.

"I thought the two never had been parted."

"It is time such fantasies should be broken through. Roy must go to a
boarding-school in the autumn, and this will pave the way."

Mrs. Baron lifted a lace pocket-handkerchief to her eyes.

"My dear heart—a school five miles off! You will think nothing of
it when the time arrives," urged the Colonel. He had won his wife's
consent to the boarding-school in the autumn only that morning, by
yielding to her wish that Roy should go to Paris. The Colonel's
graceful wife was something of a spoilt child in her ways, and he
seldom had the will to oppose her seriously.

"Indeed, I should say so too," struck in Mrs. Bryce. "You don't desire
to turn him into a nincompoop; and between you and Molly, my dear
Harriette, he hasn't a chance, And what's to become of Molly?"

Mrs. Baron was still gently dabbing her eyes with the square of lace;
and the Colonel answered—"My wife's stepmother wishes to have Molly in
Bath for a visit. She will travel thither with Polly early next week."

"Too much gadding about! Not the sort of way I was brought up, nor you
either. But everything is turned upside down in these days. And you've
persuaded Captain Ivor to go too!"

"Undoubtedly Den will accompany us."

"And you're content to put yourselves into the clutches of that
miserable Boney!"

"My dear madam, the First Consul does not wage war on unoffending
travellers."

"Boney doesn't care what he does, so long as he can get his own way."

"He will at least act in accordance with the laws of civilised nations."

"Not he! Boney makes his own laws to suit himself."

"Well, well, my dear madam, we view these things differently. I have
made up my mind. My wife has never been into France, and we may not
have another opportunity for many years to come."

"Likely enough—while the Corsican lives!" muttered Mrs. Bryce.

The end window opened upon a verandah, and just outside this window,
which had been thrown wide open, for it was an unusually hot spring
day, a boy lay flat upon the ground, shaping a small wooden boat with
his penknife. At the first mention of his name, a fair curly head
popped up and popped down again. A recurrence of the word "Roy" brought
up the head a second time, and two wide grey eyes stared eagerly over
the low sill into the room. He might have been seen easily enough, but
people were too busy to look that way. Then again the head vanished,
and its owner lay motionless, apparently listening. After which he
rolled away, jumped up, and scampered to the schoolroom at the back of
the house.

It was a good-sized house, with a nice garden, in the outskirts of
London; a much more limited London than the great metropolis of our
day, though even then Englishmen were wont to describe it as "vast."
Trafalgar Square and Regent Street were unbuilt; Pimlico consisted of
bare rough ground, and Moorfields of genuine swampy fields; and the
City was still a fashionable place of residence.

Roy Baron was a handsome lad, well set-up, straight and spirited,
though small for his age, and, as Mrs. Bryce had intimated, childish in
appearance. He had on a blue cloth jacket, with trousers and waistcoat
of the same material. Knickerbockers were unknown. Children and older
boys wore loose trousers, while tights and uncovered stockings were
reserved for grown-up gentlemen. In a few weeks Roy would exchange his
cloth waistcoat and trousers for linen ditto, either white or striped.
Boys' hair was not cropped so closely in the year 1803 as in the
Nineties; and a mass of tight curls clustered over Roy's head.

The year 1803! Think what that means.

Napoleon Buonaparte was alive—not only alive, but in full vigour; he
had entered on his career of conquest, and the world was in terror of
his name. Nelson was alive; five years earlier he had won the great
Battle of the Nile, two years earlier the great Battle of Copenhagen,
though he had not yet won his crowning victory of Trafalgar which
established British supremacy over the ocean. Wellington was alive; but
his then name of Sir Arthur Wellesley had not become widely famous, and
no one could guess that one day he would be the Iron Duke of world-wide
celebrity. Sir John Moore, the future Hero of Coruña, was alive, and
though not knighted was already the foremost British soldier of his age.

Napoleon was not yet Emperor of the French. He was climbing towards
that goal, but thus far he had not advanced beyond being First Consul
in the Republic.

The peace between England and France, lasting somewhat over twelve
months, had been hardly more than an armed and uncertain truce, a mere
slight break in long years of intermittent warfare. As the old king,
George III., remarked at the time, it was 'an experimental peace,' and
few had hopes of its long continuance. For the Firebrand was still in
Europe, and barrels of gunpowder lay on all sides. Both before the
peace began, and also while it continued, Napoleon indulged in many
speculative threats of a future invasion of England, and preparations
were said to be at this date actually begun.

England alone of all the nations stood erect, and fearlessly looked
the tyrant in the face. And Great Britain, with all her pluck, had
then but a tiny army, and few fortifications; while her chief defence,
the fleet, though splendidly manned, was weak indeed compared with the
mighty armament which she now possesses.

Whether the peace would last, or whether it would speedily end,
depended mainly on the will of one man, an ambitious and reckless
despot, who cared not a jot what rivers of French and English blood
he might cause to flow, nor how many thousands of French and English
widows' hearts might be broken, so long as he could indulge to the
full his lust of conquest, and could obtain plenty of what he called
"glory." Another and truer name might easily have been found.



CHAPTER II

SWEET POLLY'S GRENADIER

"MOLLY, Molly—listen! I've something to tell you."

Roy jerked a story-book out of his twin-sister's hands. It was not a
handsome and prettily illustrated volume, like those now in vogue,
being bound in dull boards, with woodcuts fantastically hideous. But
Molly knew nothing better, and she loved reading, while Roy hated
it—unless he found a book about battles. Molly was even smaller and
younger-looking for her years than Roy. She had a pale little face,
with anxious black eyes, and short dark hair brushed smoothly behind
her ears. She wore a frock of thick blue stuff, short-waisted and
low-necked, while her thin arms were bare.

The schoolroom served also as a playroom. Its furniture was scanty,
including no easy-chairs. Mrs. Baron was a mother unusually given to
the expression of tender feeling, in a sterner age than ours. But she
never dreamt of giving her children opportunities for lounging. They
had to grow up straight-backed, whatever it might cost them.

In this room Roy and Molly had done all their lessons together, till
Roy reached the age of nine years; and the day on which he began to
attend a large boys' school had witnessed the first deep desolation
of little Molly's heart. An ever-present dread was upon her of the
coming time—she knew it must come—when he would be sent away to a
boarding-school, and she would be left alone.

Roy seated himself astride on a chair, with his face to the back, and
poured out his tale. Molly listened in dead silence, staring hard at
the opposite wall. If Roy did not mind about leaving her, she was not
going to show how much she cared about losing him.

"And I shall write and tell you all I see in France," were his
concluding words. "And you'll have Jack and Polly, you know—and Bob
Monke too."

Would Roy have thought Jack and Polly and Bob enough if he had been the
one to stay at home? That was the question in Molly's heart. But she
only said, with a catch of her breath—

"I shouldn't like to be you, to have listened on the sly. It was mean."

The word stung sharply. Roy always pictured his own future in
connection with a scarlet coat, a three-cornered cocked hat, a
beautiful pigtail, and the stiffest of military stocks to hold up
his chin. He knew something of a soldier's sense of honour, and even
now, small though he was, he counted himself quite equal to fighting
his country's battles. And that he—Roy Baron, son of a Colonel in His
Majesty's Guards—should be accused by a girl of "meanness!"

"It was horridly mean," repeated Molly. "Prying on the sly, and then
coming and telling me. If I had done such a thing, you'd have been the
first to say it was wrong."

Roy stood upright.

"You needn't have told it me like that," he said reproachfully. "But I
wouldn't be mean for anything, and I'm going to tell papa."

He did not ask his twin to go with him, and Molly was keenly conscious
of the omission. He marched off alone, carrying his head as high as if
the military stock already encircled his throat. There was a pause in
the conversation, as he entered the drawing-room.

"Run away, Roy," said the Colonel. "We are busy."

"Please, sir, may I say something first?" Roy stood in front of his
father, facing him resolutely.

"Well, be quick, my boy."

Roy's honest grey eyes met those of the Colonel. "I was out there," he
said, pointing to the verandah, "and I heard something. I didn't know
it was a secret, and I listened. I heard about going to Paris, and I
went and told Molly. She said it was mean of me, and I—couldn't be
mean, sir."

"No, Roy, I'm sure you couldn't." The Colonel spoke gravely, while
delighted at his boy's openness.

"I didn't mean any harm, sir; I won't ever listen again."

"Quite right; never listen to anything you are not intended to know,"
agreed the Colonel. "You should have told us that you were there. And
if I had found you out, listening, I should certainly have blamed you.
But as you have voluntarily confessed, we will say no more about the
matter. Now you may run away."

Roy bounded off, in the best of spirits; and the pretty girl, with tall
feathers in her bonnet, glided softly in his wake. She did not follow
him far. She saw him vanish towards the garden, and she went towards
the schoolroom. For Roy had told Molly about the Paris plan, and Polly
guessed what that would be to Molly.

Mary Keene and her brother John, commonly known as "Polly" and
"Jack," were not really cousins to the twins, though treated as
such. Their widowed grandmother, Mrs. Keene, had some fourteen
years earlier married a second time, rather late in life; and her
new husband, Mr. Fairbank, had one daughter, Harriette, wife of
Colonel—then Captain—Baron of the Guards. Two or three years later her
grandchildren, Jack and Polly, were left orphans, and were adopted
by Mr. and Mrs. Fairbank. When Mr. Fairbank died, his twice-widowed
wife took up her abode in Bath, at that date a fashionable place of
residence for "the quality." Jack, who was a year or two older than
Polly, had just been gazetted to a regiment of the line, quartered in
Bath.

Molly was very fond of Polly and of Jack; but no one could be to her
like her twin-brother, and Roy's indifference had cut her to the quick.
When Polly came in she at once detected a little heap in the corner of
the schoolroom, and heard a smothered sob. She drew off her gloves,
made her way to the corner, sat down upon the ground, and put a pair of
gentle arms round the child.

"Fie, little Molly, fie! This won't do at all. Crying to have to go
home with me. That is wrong and silly. And so unkind, too. I wanted so
much to have dear little Molly; and now I know she does not care to
come. Molly, you little goose, don't you know people can't be always
together? And you and I can't alter the world, to please ourselves. Roy
is glad to go to Paris, of course. Fie, fie, Molly! cheer up, and don't
be doleful. If you are unhappy, it makes other people unhappy; and that
is such a pity. You don't want to make me cry too, do you?"

The elder girl's eyes had a look in them of tears not far distant; as
she bent over the child.

"Other people have troubles as well as you, little Moll. We don't all—I
mean they don't all—talk about their troubles. It is of no use. Things
have to be borne, and crying does no good. So stop your tears, and
think how agreeable it will be to see my grandmother and Jack, and the
Pump Room, and all the fine ladies and gentlemen walking about in their
gay clothes."

A squeeze of Molly's arms came in reply.

"There will be Admiral and Mrs. Peirce to see; for the Admiral is now
on shore, and they are in Bath. And little Will Peirce, who soon is to
be a middy in His Majesty's Navy. And my cousin, Bob Monke, who is at
school there. And Jack shall show himself off to you in his new scarlet
coat. I am proud of him, for Jack is everything in the world to me. No,
not everything, but a great deal, as Roy is to you. Yet I do not expect
to keep Jack always by my side. He will have to go some day, and to
fight for Old England. And when that day comes I will bid him good-bye
with a smile, for I would not be a drag upon him, And Roy will go too,
and you will bear it bravely, little Moll, like a soldier's daughter."

The soft caressing voice, the cool rose-leaf cheek against her own, the
lovely dark eyes smiling upon her, all comforted Molly; and she clung
to Polly, and cried away half her pain.

"Don't tell Roy," she begged presently. "He doesn't mind, and he must
not think I care."

"Why not? That is naughty pride, Moll. It is always the women who
care—not the men." Polly held up her head, and a far-away look crept
into the sweet eyes. "Dear, you must expect it to be so. Men have so
much to do and to think about. But we have time to grieve when they go
to fight. And they are always so glad to go."

"Are they?" a deep quiet voice asked, close to her side; and Polly
started strangely. For a moment her tiny shell-pink ears became
crimson, and then she looked up, smiling.

"How do you do, Captain Ivor?"

Denham Ivor in his uniform—large-skirted military coat, black gaiters,
white breeches, pigtail, and gold-laced cocked hat in hand—looked even
taller than when out of it; and at all times he was wont to overtop the
average man. He had a fine face, well-browned, with regular features
and dark eyes, ordinarily calm, and he bore his head in a stately
fashion, while his manners were marked by a grave courtesy which might
seem strange beside modern freedom. As he looked down upon Polly a
subdued glow awoke in those serious eyes.

Polly had not sprung up. She was still kneeling on the floor beside
Molly, and her slim figure in its white frock looked very childlike.
The flush had died as fast as it had arisen. Molly was clinging to her
with hidden face, and for an instant the fresh voice failed to reach
the younger girl's understanding. Then Molly became aware of another
spectator, and, quitting her hold, she fled from the room. Polly stood
up gracefully.

"We will now go to the drawing-room," she suggested.

"Nay, wait a moment, I entreat. One instant—" and the bronzed face
had grown pale. "I beseech of you to listen to me. For indeed, madam,
I have somewhat to say which I can no longer resolve to keep to
myself. No—not even for one more day. Somewhat that you alone can
answer—thereby making me the most happy or the most miserable of men."

A tiny gleam came to Polly's downcast eyes.

"If you have aught that is weighty to say, it may be that I could but
refer you to my grandmother," she suggested demurely.

"But perhaps you can divine what that weighty thing is! And what if
already I have written to your grandmother, and if Mrs. Fairbank has
graciously consented to my suit? For indeed it is even so."

Young ladies did not give themselves away too cheaply in those days.
Polly was barely eighteen, but for all that she had a very dainty
air of dignity. And if during past weeks she had gone through some
troublous hours, recognising how much she cared for Captain Ivor, and
wondering, despite his marked attentions, whether he really cared for
her, she was not going to admit as much in any haste to the individual
in question. So she dropped an elegant little curtsey, and asked with
the most innocent air imaginable—

"Then pray, sir, what may be your will?"

"Sweet Polly, may I speak?"

A solid square stool, well adapted for present purposes, was close
at hand; and promptly down upon this with both knees went the tall
grenadier, in the most approved fashion of his day. Sweet Polly could
not long stand out against this earnest pleading. So, with a show of
coy reserve, she gradually yielded, intimating that she did like him
just a little; that some day or other she thought she could be his
wife; that meantime she would manage somehow to keep him in her memory.

[Illustration: Promptly down upon this with both knees
 went the tall grenadier.]

"And next week you are away to Paris," she said, perhaps secretly
wondering why he did not spend his leave in Bath. "For a whole
fortnight."

"I could wish I were not going; but all is arranged, and the Colonel
depends upon me. I must not fail him now at the last. If I can see my
way to return at the end of a se'nnight, I will assuredly do so. If
not—I shall still have a fortnight after we come home. I shall know
what to do with that time, sweetheart."



CHAPTER III

A MAN AMONG TEN THOUSAND

HALF-AN-HOUR later, Denham Ivor, with Roy by his side, walked down the
street, his grave face alight with a new joy. Roy, ever his devoted
admirer, glanced upward once and again with boyish wonder. He had never
seen that look before. He decided that the journey into France was as
delightful in prospect to Denham as to himself.

"And Molly needn't mind," he said, carrying on his own line of thought,
confident that it fitted in with Denham's. "'We shan't be gone only a
fortnight. I don't see why she should care."

"Well, no. A fortnight is a mere nothing, Roy."

Half-way down the next street Ivor stood still abruptly. The front door
of a house opened, and a man came quickly out, close to him and Roy.
Denham's hand was lifted in an instant salute, and Roy followed his
example with amusing promptitude.

A remarkable man! Nobody casting one glance in his direction could fail
to cast a second. Equal to Ivor in height, gracefully built, every
inch a soldier, with a figure and face alike faultless in outlines,
he could not but draw attention. So young still in look and air that
none would have guessed him to be already over forty in age, already
a Lieutenant-General in rank, there was about him an extraordinary
and commanding force; and while the large brilliant hazel eyes,
under their dark arched brows, were brimming with laughter at Roy's
comical imitation of Denham, their slightest glance was of a kind to
search men's hearts, to enforce instant obedience. His was, indeed, a
singularly noble bearing.

Ivor was no longer utterly absorbed in thoughts of Polly. Another
supreme passion of his being had come to the front. Roy, keeping as
always one eye upon Denham, while taking note of all else around, saw
with fresh wonder the look in his face—a look of reverent devotion and
love. Never before had the boy seen these two together.

"Ivor! I expected to come across you somewhere. All your people well?
So Colonel Baron is off to France."

"Yes, sir. I am going with him."

"Ha!" thoughtfully. "Well, have your little jaunt, by all means. It may
be your last chance for a good while. Mischief lies ahead."

"That seems to be the general opinion, sir."

"No doubt about it. War will be declared, to a dead certainty, before
many weeks are over. But matters are not yet quite ripe. You will have
time for a glance at Versailles. After that, the deluge! I hope I may
have you to serve under me, wherever I am ordered, when the rupture
takes place."

"And I, sir, could desire nothing in life more!"

Those brilliant eyes met his. "What!—nothing! No fair lady in the
question, to carry off your more ardent longings!"

Ivor's bronzed cheek took a slightly deeper dye, though he answered
decisively—"You know me well enough, sir, to believe that no claim in
all the world could come before that."

The radiant smile would have been answer enough, without words.

"I do know you well enough. None the less, if I be not greatly
mistaken, you will have somewhat to tell me by and by."

"Yes, sir. Miss Keene and I are engaged."

"Already! You have been expeditious. But I suspected as much, and you
have my most hearty congratulations. And still you go to Paris! For how
long?"

"At the most a fortnight, sir. It may be less."

"That is well. No saying how soon troubles may break out. Good-bye, for
the moment. I shall see you in a few weeks; and what may have happened
before then, in these tempestuous days, he would be a rash man that
should foretell with confidence."

With a markedly kind and cordial farewell the speaker passed on, Roy
saying eagerly, so soon as he was beyond ear-shot—

"Den, was that General Moore? I'm sure it is General Moore. I saw him
once, you know—ever so long ago."

Rash indeed would any man have been to foretell the events which,
beginning in the near future, were to shape the pathways of those
three! Little dreamt Roy, in his boyish half-puzzled interest, that
long years were to pass before ever again his eyes should rest upon
that soldierly face and form. Little dreamt Ivor, glad in the thought
of Moore's confidence, Moore's wish, that never, never again in
this life, would he stand in the presence of the man who was to him
more than the whole world beside—in a sense more than even Polly,
passionately as he loved Polly.

His feeling for John Moore partook, indeed, rather of the nature of
idolatry. The love of man for man is so distinct from the love of man
for woman, that the one cannot be compared with the other, the one
cannot interfere with the other. From very boyhood Denham had revered
and worshipped Moore, with that reverent worship which can only be
called out by the superlatively good and great and lovable. It had
grown to be part of Denham's nature, part of his being. Polly was the
one woman on earth for him. But Moore was the one man whom he longed
to follow, to whom he looked up as to a superior being, with whom he
craved to be, for whom he would joyously have died. No other affection
could detract from this devotion.

Roy's remark was unnoticed, perhaps unheard. Ivor stood, gazing
steadfastly, until his chief was out of sight. Those who knew and
adored Moore—and they were many in number—could scarcely take their
eyes and attention from him when he was within sight.

It is to be feared that Polly found small leisure thereafter for
meditating on the childish woes of Molly, so full was her head of the
brave young Grenadier Captain who had vowed to devote his life to her.

One fortnight of separation, and then she would have him again, and
hers would be the ineffable delight of showing off her brave lover
among Bath friends. How they would one and all envy Polly!

A touch of feminine vanity crept in here, though Polly's whole heart
was given to Denham. But in his deeper love for her, there was no
thought of what others might say. He would doubtless be proud of the
fair young creature whom he had won; yet in his love no room remained
for any such puerile element.

He stood much alone in the world as regarded kinship, having been left
an orphan at an early age, under the guardianship of Colonel Baron,
his father's cousin, and having no brothers, sisters, or other near
relatives. The Barons' house had ever been a home to him; and while the
Colonel was almost as his father, Mrs. Baron filled rather the position
of an elder sister. To Roy and Molly, Denham was the most delightful of
big elder brothers.

He had seen a good deal of both Polly and Jack in their childhood,
but during later years he had been much on service abroad. His first
view of Polly Keene, his quondam pet and playmate, transformed into
a grown-up young lady, took place a few weeks before this date.
Denham had lost his heart to her in the first hour of their renewed
acquaintance; and Polly soon discovered that he was the one man in the
world who had her happiness in his keeping.

Three or four days later, when good-byes were said, no voice whispered
either to him or to Polly how long-drawn a separation lay ahead.



CHAPTER IV

DOLEFUL TIDINGS

"A LETTER from Paris! Grandmother, a letter from Paris!" cried Molly,
as she rushed into the dining-room of Mrs. Fairbank's house at Bath.
"And it is in my papa's handwriting."

Mrs. Fairbank, a comely elderly lady—in these days, with the same
weight of years, she would have been cheerfully middle-aged—adjusted
her horn spectacles, tied her loosened capstrings, and scrutinised
Molly's eager face.

"You make too much of things, child," she remarked. "Whatever befalls,
it is not worth while to discompose yourself."

Then she lifted the letter, examined it, weighed it in either hand—and
hesitated. Being an excellent disciplinarian, she was wont to welcome
opportunities for the exercise of self-control. Molly, squeezing her
hands together, wondered if the slow moments would ever pass, and Polly
found it scarcely easier to endure delay.

"Jack!" gasped Molly,—and "O Jack!" echoed Polly, in a tone of relief.

The young man who walked in—he was hardly more than a boy in years—bore
small resemblance to his sister. He was of squarer build than Polly,
under medium height, and muscular in make; his features were irregular,
and the eyes were light blue, instead of brown. Jack Keene boasted no
particular pretensions to good looks, but he was very generally liked;
and Mrs. Fairbank, after the manner of elderly ladies, doted on her
grandson.

Jack read the little scene at a glance, and as he stooped to greet one
after another, he said—"News from France, ma'am? And what may they say?"

Having no further excuse for delay, Mrs. Fairbank opened the letter,
and took thence a tiny missive, addressed to Molly. "From Roy," she
said. "I think—" and there was a dubious pause—"I think I may permit
you to read this to yourself, child. Doubtless your mamma has seen it."

Molly fled to the window-seat, and plunged into the delights of Roy's
epistle. Mrs. Fairbank's face of growing concern failed to draw her
attention; and a murmured consultation which took place might have gone
on in China, for all the impression that it made upon her. But having
three times gone through the contents of her little sheet, and having
kissed it tenderly, she at length carried it to Polly.

"Roy has forgotten to sign his name," she said. "And he said he had a
cold, and felt sea-sick."

"Roy, I regret to say, is far from well, my dear," replied Mrs.
Fairbank solemnly. "He has been taken ill with a most unexpected
disorder. It is truly unfortunate. He has the smallpox. Doubtless he
took it into his constitution before ever he left England."

Polly wound her kind arms round the image of childish woe.

"But numbers and numbers of people have smallpox," she observed. "And
many get over the complaint." This was lame comfort; but what else
could Polly say? The reign of that awful scourge of nations was not
yet over. Vaccination had indeed been recently discovered, and was
making way; but it had not yet become general, even in England. Many
people, from ignorance, doubted its worth; many still preferred the
more dangerous safeguard of inoculation. Strange to say, the Barons had
not yet, as a family, undergone vaccination, though they had talked of
doing so. They had been half sceptical, half dilatory.

"Will his face be all marked?" asked Molly sadly, thinking of the
innumerable seamed and disfigured faces which she knew. "Will he be
like Mr. Bryce?"

"I hope not, indeed. All who have it are not scarred. Captain Ivor
is not, yet he has had it. Think, Molly, is not Captain Ivor kind
and brave? He has taken Roy into another house, and he will not let
your father or mother go near to Roy, or any one who has not had the
disorder. He is nursing Roy himself, and they hope it will not be a
severe attack."

Molly was hard to comfort; and no wonder. All her spirit went out of
her, and she seemed to care for nothing except clinging to Polly, and
being assured again and again that Roy would probably soon be better.

Letters then were not an everyday matter, as now. Posts were slow and
expensive, and people thought more than twice before putting pen to
paper. Colonel Baron had promised to write again soon, but he waited
till he should have something definite to say.

The suspense was almost as hard for Polly as for Molly—harder, perhaps,
in some respects. Only, as Ivor had had the disease, and had nursed a
friend through it without being the worse, he might be counted safe.
But Polly knew that his stay in Paris was likely to be much lengthened.
Weeks might pass before Roy would be able to travel. Denham would most
likely spend the whole of his leave in attendance upon the boy; and
when he returned, he would have no time left to spare for Bath. At
present her fears extended no further.

Meanwhile public events marched on with strides. That month of May 1803
was astir with events. The maintenance of peace between England and
France became daily more precarious. The feverish ambition of Napoleon
could know no rest, so long as he was confronted by a single nation in
Europe.

This state of tension increased, till the breaking out of war became
merely a question of days. Large numbers of English had seized the rare
opportunity of a year free from fighting to travel in France, and at
this time there were something like eight or ten thousand British in
that country. The French papers heartily assured English travellers of
their absolute safety, even supposing that war should break out; and
doubtless the editors meant what they said. Few men, French or English,
could have foreseen what was coming.

Despite such assurances, a homeward stampede took place; and the
thousands were, by some accounts, reduced rapidly to hundreds. Many
lingered, however; not all detained, as were the Barons, by illness.
War-clouds might threaten; but that travellers should be affected by a
declaration of war was a thing unheard-of.

In May, suddenly at the last, though the step had been expected, the
British ambassador was recalled from Paris, and the French ambassador
was recalled from London. Meanwhile the English Government, issuing
letters of marque, seized a number of French vessels which happened
then to be lying in English ports. This, it was said, took place before
the declaration of war could reach Paris. If so, though the deed was
sanctioned by centuries of custom, one must regret its haste. But no
excuse can be found for Napoleon's illegal and cruel act of reprisal.

Like a thunder-crash came the order, before the close of May, arresting
all peaceable British travellers or residents in France, and rendering
them "prisoners of war" or détenus, to be confined in France during
the pleasure of the First Consul. The shortened form of that direful
proclamation, as it was printed in English newspapers, spread dismay
through hundreds of English homes, and awakened a furious burst of
anger against the man who had dealt the blow.



CHAPTER V

GENERAL INDIGNATION

"HALLO, Keene!—Mr. Jack Keene! At your service, sir!"

"Admiral! How do you? I was near giving you the go-by."

"Near running me down, you might say. Like to a three-decker in full
sail. You are going indoors. Ay, ay, then I'll wait. I'll come another
day. 'Twas in my mind that Mrs. Fairbank might be glad of a word. But
since you are here—"

"She will be glad, I can assure you. Pray, sir, come in with me. This
is a frightful blow. It was told me as I came off the ground after
parade, and I hastened hither at full speed."

"Ay, ay, that did you," muttered the Admiral. "Seeing nought ahead of
you but the Corsican, I'll be bound."

"Tis a disgrace to his nation," burst out Jack. "Sir, what do you think
of the step?"

"Think! The most atrocious, the most abominable piece of work ever
heard of. If ever a living man deserved to be strung up at the
yard-arm, that man is Napoleon."

"It can never, sure, be carried out."

"Nay, if the Consul chooses, what is to hinder?"

"Government will not give up the vessels seized."

"Give them up! Knuckle down to the Corsican! Crouch before him, like
to a whipped hound! Why, war had been declared. Our ambassador had had
his orders to come home before ever the step was taken. Give up the
ships! Confess ourselves wrong, in a custom which has been allowed for
ages! We'll give nothing up—nothing, my dear Jack. Sooner than that,
let Boney do his best and his worst. Wants to chase our vessels of war,
does he? Ay, so he may, when they turn tail and run away. We shall know
how to meet him, afloat, fast enough—no fear! With our jolly tars, and
gallant Nelson at their head, there's a thing or two yet to be taught
to the First Consul, or I'm greatly in error."

The two speakers stood outside Mrs. Fairbank's house in Bath, where
they had arrived from opposite directions at the same moment. Both had
walked fast, and each after his own mode showed excitement. The older
of the two, Admiral Peirce, a grizzled veteran, made small attempt to
hide the wrath which quivered visibly in every fibre of his athletic
figure. He had usually a frank and kindly countenance, weather-beaten
by many a storm, yet overflowing with geniality. The geniality had
forsaken it this morning, and he looked like one whom an enemy might
prefer not to meet at close quarters.

Jack Keene had, as he intimated, come straight from parade, not waiting
to get rid of his uniform; and in that uniform the young Ensign
looked older than in mufti. Also he seemed older in this mood of hot
indignation, his light blue eyes sparkling angrily, and his brows
frowning. For once, whatever might usually be the case, he had the air
of a grown man.

"Tis a freak of Boney's—not like to last. The whole civilised world
will cry out upon him. Not that he greatly troubles his pate with what
folks may say," added the Admiral, reflecting that the civilised world
had been for many years crying out upon Napoleon, with no particular
result. "Still, there are limits to everything. Yes, yes, I will come
in with you."

Jack led the way, and they found a forlorn trio within. Mrs. Fairbank
knitted fast, with frequent droppings of stitches; and Polly, white and
dismayed, had an arm round Molly, whom she was trying to comfort, while
much needing comfort herself. Two days before, a letter had come from
Colonel Baron, with a cheerful report of Roy, and Molly's happiness was
sadly dashed by this new complication.

Jack was speedily by their side, doing his best to console them both.
Molly, as earlier stated, was small and childish for her twelve years,
and Jack was next-door to being her brother; so she cried quietly,
leaning her face against his scarlet coat, while he whispered hopeful
foretellings.

"This is truly a doleful state of things, ma'am," the Admiral observed,
turning his attention, as in duty bound, towards the elder lady. "Who
could have thought such wickedness possible? 'Tis prodigiously sad. I
vow there was never such a being as this First Consul since first the
world was created. But cheer up, ma'am. Never you mind about him, nor
pretty Polly neither. Things will all come right in time—maybe sooner,
maybe later—there's no sort of doubt."

"But are they indeed all prisoners, sir?" asked Polly.

"Nay, nay, not so bad as that! The First Consul may be but little
removed from a fiend; yet even he does not war with women and with
schoolboys. Mrs. Baron is free to return when she will, and to bring
Roy with her. 'All the English from the ages of eighteen to sixty,'
and any such as are in His Majesty's Service—those are the terms of
the arrest. Roy being under eighteen, and not yet having a commission,
is not included. 'Tis only Colonel Baron and Captain Ivor who are to
be accounted prisoners of war. An atrocious deed, with harmless and
innocent travellers."

That "only" sounded hard to Polly, though it was meant in all kindness.
The Admiral was doing his best to bring a ray of sunshine into a cloudy
prospect.

Before any one could reply, the door opened, and in sailed Mrs. Bryce,
followed by her husband. They had found their way to Bath, avowedly to
drink the waters; and Mrs. Bryce was looking her gayest, as befitted a
fashionable visitor to fashionable Bath.

When once Mrs. Bryce was upon the scene, other people had no chance of
saying much.

"So this is the outcome of it all!" she exclaimed, with uplifted hands.
"A fortnight in Paris—more like to be a matter of years. Nap has 'em
in safe keeping, and depend on 't, he'll not let them go in no sort of
haste. I protest, when Colonel Baron told me of his purpose, I had an
inkling in my mind of what should come to pass. Did I not warn him? Did
I not tell him he should be content to stop at home? 'Tis now even as I
foretold. If the mice will foolishly run into the trap, with their eyes
open, what may be expected but that in the trap they must stay? My dear
Mrs. Fairbank, I do most sincerely condole with you all."

Mrs. Fairbank parted her lips, and had time to do no more.

"Tis done now, and it cannot be undone. But 'tis a lesson for the
future. Had the Colonel but shown his accustomed good sense, he would
have taken warning by my words, and might now be sound and safe in
England. But everybody has expected war. If England will not act at the
bidding of old Nap, England has to fight. And England will not obey his
will. Therefore we must needs fight."

"The Treaty of Amiens—" Mrs. Fairbank began to say.

"O excuse me, I beseech! We agreed, doubtless, in that Treaty, to carry
out certain conditions, if old Nap should carry out certain others. And
on his part those conditions have been broken. For months the Treaty
has been worth so much waste paper. Since Boney has not kept his share
of the agreement, we are free. What! are we to yield to the tyrant, and
to do his will? I protest, England is not yet sunk so low."

The others tried to intimate how fully they agreed with the lively
speaker, but she went on, unheeding—

"I have it all from my brother, who has it at first-hand from His Grace
the Duke of Hamilton. I venture to think that's unimpeachable, ma'am.
One thing is sure, our friends over the Channel will not be back this
great while. I give them at the least three years. Nay, why not four or
five?"

"Nay, why not forty or fifty?" drily asked Jack. "Nay, Molly!" —as he
felt her start. "Who knows? The war may last but six months. And Roy is
free."

But he could not speak of Ivor as free: and he saw Polly's colour
deepen, her eyes filling. This could not be allowed to go on. A
diversion had become necessary: and Jack's voice was heard to say
something in slow insistent tones, making itself audible through Mrs.
Bryce's continued outpour.

"A very great friend of his Grace—" reached her ears. Mrs. Bryce, being
much of a tuft-hunter, stopped short.



CHAPTER VI

THE DUKE'S PARTICULAR FRIEND

"You were saying, Jack— What was that which you were pleased to remark?"

"I did but observe, ma'am, that the Duke of Hamilton's most particular
friend—who is also, in my humble opinion, and in that of many others,
the greatest of living Englishmen—chances to be at this instant staying
in Bath."

"The Duke's particular friend! Then, sure, 'tis somebody whom we are
acquainted with, my dear—" turning to her husband, more impressed with
the fact of the ducal friendship than with Jack's estimate of the man.
"Somebody, doubtless, in the world of mode; and 'twould be vastly odd
if we had not come across him."

"We may scarce claim to be acquainted with all his Grace's friends,"
mildly objected Mr. Bryce.

"Well, that's as may be. But who is the distinguished person, Jack?"

"None less than General Moore himself, ma'am."

Mrs. Bryce held up startled hands, and vowed that the most ardent
wish of her heart was to set eyes on this Hero of heroes, whom by a
succession of mischances she had hitherto failed to meet.

"Though in truth 'tis small marvel, since the General is for ever away
across seas, fighting his country's battles," she added. "Excepting in
this past year of the peace, when each time that I would have seen him,
fate prevented me. And he is in Bath at this moment, say you?"

"Ay, ma'am. And if you desire to find another who reckons General Moore
to be the foremost British soldier of his day, and to be the noblest
among men,—why, I've but to refer you to Ivor."

"And now I bethink myself," exclaimed Mrs. Bryce. "Was not that a
Mrs. Moore to whom in the Pump Room yesterday Mrs. Peirce introduced
me, saying I should feel myself honoured, knowing her son's name? I
protest, I had forgot the matter till now, having had my attention
drawn off, and not bethinking me of General Moore."

Mr. Bryce intimated that his wife was in the right. He had imagined
that Mrs. Bryce understood. General Moore's mother was the widow of a
very able Scots physician, as he proceeded to explain.

"A woman of much force of character and no small charm of manner," he
said. "The General, 'tis reported, has been ever distractedly fond of
his mother and sister, and they are here together for a spell. I fear
'tis likely to be a brief spell. War being now declared, his services
will be assuredly needed elsewhere."

The attention of Mrs. Bryce was as effectively diverted as Jack had
wished. "The General's mother—and friends of his Grace of Hamilton,"
she meditated aloud. "A most unassuming person! But since I'm
introduced, I'll most certainly leave upon them my visiting-ticket."

"By all means, my dear, if you so desire. 'Tis said that the good lady
cares not greatly for society; ne'ertheless, she'll doubtless take it
well, in compliment to her son's merits and his great fame."

"It may be we shall see them again in the Pump Room, on leaving this.
I'll away thither at once. Could I but set eyes on the General, 'twould
be the utmost gratification to me that ever I felt." She stood up,
eager to be off; but as she went she gave a parting fling—"Depend on
't, old Nap will be in no sort of hurry to let his prisoners go free.
No one need think it."

On that particular day Mrs. Bryce had not her wish; yet the fulfilment
of it was not to be long delayed.

A morning or two later what she desired came unexpectedly, as is often
the case. She had taken Molly for a walk, and Mr. Bryce had left them
outside the Pump Room, to go to a shop. "I shall be speedily back, my
dear," he had said. "If you choose to wait for me, I will rejoin you."

Mrs. Bryce elected to wait, and hardly had he vanished round a corner
before her eyes fell upon two men, coming out of the Pump Room in
earnest talk. The younger of the pair was unnoticed by Mrs. Bryce.
All her attention was instantly concentrated on the other. She was
quick of wits and keen in observation, and she had heard more than one
description of Moore's personal appearance.

A consciousness flashed across her, as she noted the splendidly borne
head, that here was no ordinary individual.

Could it be—? Might it be—? Mrs. Bryce glanced round in despair for her
husband. He was out of sight. That she should be foiled again was not
to be endured.

Shyness had never been a characteristic of Mrs. Bryce. If this indeed
were the man whom she craved to see, she would not miss her opportunity.

The two came to a pause, and Mrs. Bryce drew nearer, Molly keeping
close by her side. In a clear full voice one was speaking—the one who
absorbed Mrs. Bryce's attention,—and the concluding words of the short
sentence were uttered with an intonation which, to any one who had
heard Moore speak before, must have been unmistakable—

"If ever a man tells me a lie—" then came a slight impressive
break,—"I've done with him!"

Something in a lower tone from the other, and a response—

"Ay, no need to assure you of that. I shall see you soon again."

He lifted his hat, and as they parted, going different ways, Mrs. Bryce
with a swift movement placed herself in the path of the General. His
hat was again courteously raised, and the penetrating eyes met hers.

"Pray, sir—I entreat of you—pardon my boldness. I have not yet the
supreme honour of your acquaintance. But, if I am not strangely in
error, your name, sir, is—"

"John Moore, madam."

Mrs. Bryce sank to the ground in a profound reverence, and Molly dipped
a neat little curtsey in her wake.

"Sir, it is the proudest moment of my life. That I should be vouchsafed
the distinction of speaking with our most famous General! But excuse my
boldness, sir. You are acquainted with my young friends, Captain Ivor
and Mr. Jack Keene. And my husband, Mr. Bryce, has had the honour of a
word with you. I have hitherto been less fortunate, though I too have
been introduced to your excellent mother, Mrs. Moore, upon whom I have
taken the liberty of calling."

The enthusiastic lady failed to realise that, while to her he was one
of the foremost men living, she to him was no more than an unknown item
in a population of seventeen millions. General Moore listened with most
polite gravity, but the glimmer of an amused smile struggling for the
mastery might have been detected.

"Sir, if you would graciously permit me to shake hands with one to whom
my country owes a heavy debt of gratitude—"

The luminous smile broke into open sunshine. Handshaking was not then
so common as it is now between slight acquaintances, but as a matter of
course his hand was at once held out.

"You honour me greatly, madam, and I am sincerely grateful. But I fear
you overestimate my services. I have but sought to do my duty."

Mrs. Bryce curtseyed profoundly again.

"I may not venture to detain you, sir. You are doubtless much occupied.
But none can fail to know that General Moore has fought more often and
more gallantly for his country than any other general of our day. I
thank you most gratefully, sir, for the honour you have done me."

"On the contrary, ma'am, 'tis I who am honoured by your kind attention."

"Nay, sir, nay, that is but a fiction of speech. I shall never, sir, to
my dying day be oblivious of this hour. And truly I hope that I have
not seen General Moore for the last time."

Mrs. Bryce trod upon air the rest of the morning.



CHAPTER VII

PRISONERS OF WAR

COLONEL BARON might not confess the fact in so many words, but before
he had been three days in Paris he sorely regretted his own action in
taking Roy across the Channel.

When Roy was first taken ill—after ailing for a day or two—the doctor,
hastily called in, at once pronounced him to be probably sickening for
that fell disease which for centuries had held the world in a thraldom
of terror. Not without reason. Up to the close of the eighteenth
century nearly half a million of people had died in Europe every year
of smallpox.

Mrs. Baron was a fond and tender mother, yet when first that dread word
left the doctor's lips, even she fled in horror from the sick-room.
From infancy she had been used to admiration, and she knew too well to
what a mockery of the human face many a lovelier countenance than hers
was reduced.

Soon, ashamed of herself, she rallied, and would have returned; but
this the Colonel sternly prohibited.

The people of the hotel, in sheer dismay, insisted on Roy's instant
removal. The question was—where could he go? Then it was that Ivor came
to the rescue, He had had smallpox. He was not only safe, but also
experienced, having nursed a friend through the complaint. He would
take charge of the boy himself, allowing none other to enter the room.
His steady manner and cheerful face brought comfort to everybody.

Consulting with the hotel people, he heard of a M. and Mme. de Bertrand
living near, who might be willing to receive him and Roy. They and
their servant had been inoculated, and were safe. Since they were
members of the old lesser noblesse, and had lost heavily in Revolution
times, they might be glad thus to make a little money.

The matter was speedily arranged, and Roy was conveyed thither wrapped
in blankets, already much too ill to care what might be done with him.
Colonel and Mrs. Baron remained at the hotel, to endure a long agony of
suspense.

As days passed, it appeared that no one else had caught the disease,
and Roy was found to have it mildly. It was not a case of the awful
"confluent" smallpox, but of the simple "discrete" kind. There was a
good deal of fever, and at times he wandered, calling for "Molly," but
more often he was dull and stupefied, saying little.

Perhaps nobody who had seen Denham Ivor only in society or on parade
would have singled him out as likely to be a good nurse. A modern
trained nurse would have found much to complain of in his methods, and
not a little to arouse her laughter. Many of his arrangements were
highly masculine: the room was never in order; and whatever he used he
commonly plumped down in the most unlikely places.

But his patience and attention never failed; he never forgot
essentials; he never seemed to think of himself or to require rest. Day
after day he stayed in that upstairs room, only once in the twenty-four
hours going out for a short walk, that he might report Roy's condition
to Colonel Baron, meeting the latter, and standing a few yards from
him. If Roy was able to get a short sleep, Denham used that opportunity
to do the same; but in some mysterious way he always contrived to be
awake before Roy. His handsome bronzed face grew less bronzed with the
confinement and lack of exercise.

No one beside himself and the doctor entered the room, except a wizened
old Frenchwoman, herself frightful from the same dire disease, who was
hired to come in each morning, while Ivor was out, that she might put
things straight.

Then tokens of improvement began, and Colonel Baron sent a letter home
which cheered Molly's heart. But later violent inflammation of one ear
set in. For days and nights the boy suffered tortures, and sleep was
impossible for him or for his attendant. Roy in his weakness sometimes
cried bitterly with the pain, always begging that Molly might never be
told. "She'd think me so girlish," he said, while tears rolled down his
thin cheeks, marked by half a dozen red pits.

In the midst of this trouble, a terrible blow fell upon Ivor, in the
shape of a stern official notice, desiring him to consider himself a
prisoner of war, and at once to render his parole.

Ivor was commonly a calm-mannered man, with that quietness which means
the determined holding down of a far from placid nature. Some words of
fierce wrath broke from him that day. He was compelled to go and give
his parole, infection or no infection; and indignant utterances were
exchanged between him and Colonel Baron, whom he chanced to meet on the
same errand. Then he had to hasten back to the boy, with a heavy weight
at his heart.

It meant to Ivor, not only indefinite separation from Polly, but also a
complete deadlock in his military career.

He was passionately attached to Polly. He was not less ardently
attached to his Chief. If one half of his spare thoughts was given to a
future with Polly for his wife, the other half was given to a future of
campaigning under Moore.

Had imprisonment come in the ordinary way, through reverse or capture
in actual warfare, he would have borne it more easily. The sense of
injustice rankled. He foresaw, too, the complications likely to arise,
and the possibility of long delay in the exchange of prisoners. As he
patiently tended the boy, his brain went round at the thought of his
position, and that of Colonel Baron.

Three or four more days of strain, and then the abscess in the ear
broke, causing speedy relief. The first thing Roy did was to fall into
a profound sleep. When he woke up, feeling much better, his murmur was
as usual for "Den!" No answer came.

He took a look round. The light from the window was growing dim, and
the pain in his ear had vanished. Denham, near at hand, was leaning
back in the only pretence at an easy-chair which the room held. His
head rested against the wall, and he seemed to be heavily asleep.

Boys of twelve are not always very thoughtful about other people,
but an odd feeling came over Roy, as he noted the fine-looking young
soldier in that attitude of utter weariness. Through his illness he had
actually never once seen Ivor asleep till now.

"He must be tired, I'm sure. But I wish he'd wake."

The door opened slowly, and Roy's eyes grew round with surprise. Nobody
entered this infected place, as he knew, except Ivor, the doctor, and
the old woman. This newcomer stepped quietly up to the bed. She was
quite a girl, perhaps two or three years older than Polly. She was very
slight, with a neatly-fitting dress. The lighted candle in her hand
threw a glow upon her face. It was a sweet face, delicate and gentle,
and it would have been exceedingly pretty but for the evident ravages
of a long-past attack of smallpox. There were no "pits" on her skin,
but a certain soft roughness marked the whole, as if it had once been
closely covered with pits. The face was pale, its features were even,
short black hair curled over a wide forehead, and the dark eyes were
full of sadness.

Roy put out his hand involuntarily, only to snatch it back.

"I forgot. Den told me I must not touch anybody except him—not even
that ugly old woman. I'm so thirsty. I wish he'd wake up."

"Pauvre enfant!" She went to the table and brought a glass of milk,
which Roy drank eagerly. Then she smoothed his bedclothes.

"But you ought not, you know," observed Roy's weak voice. "You might
catch the smallpox. Den would make you go. Can you talk English?"

"Yes, I can talk English." She said the words in foreign style, with
slow distinctness, but with a pure intonation. "I learnt English in
your country. Yes, I have been there for three or four years. Monsieur
votre frère—your brother—il a l'air très fatigué."

"Den isn't really my brother, only he's just like one. He's just Den,
you know—Captain Denham Ivor, of His Majesty's Guards. He hasn't been
to sleep for ever so long, and that's why he is tired. My ear has been
awfully bad, for days and days. And Den was always here."

The girl left Roy, and went closer to the sleeping man. He remained
motionless, the eyes closed, a slight dew of exhaustion on the brow,
the face extremely pale. She sheltered the light from his eyes with her
hand, and, turning away, began putting things straight. A few touches
altered wondrously the look of the whole room. Roy lay and watched her.

"What's your name?" he asked. "Are you M. de Bertrand's daughter? I'm
deaf still, so don't whisper."

"No. I am Lucille de St. Roques." She came near, not to have to raise
her voice, and Roy again shrank from her. "It does not matter. I have
had the complaint, and I do not fear."

"I wonder where your home is."

"Ah,—for that, I have not now a true home. Cependant, I have kind
friends at Verdun, where I live. I am but just come here—unexpected."

"And have you a father and mother in that place—Ver—something?" Little
dreamt Roy how familiar a name it would become in a few months!

"Verdun. My father and mother they were of the old noblesse,
and—hélas!—thirteen years ago, in the Revolution, they were
guillotined."

"O I say, how horrid!" exclaimed Roy. "Why, you must have been quite a
little thing!"

"I was not yet eight years old. I was in prison with them, many many
weeks, before they went out to die."

Ivor woke suddenly and stood up, leaning against the solid four-poster,
since the room went round with him. He saw a girlish figure, and
vaguely felt that she had no business there.

"Do not make so great haste. Will you not rest a little longer?" a kind
voice said, and a soft hand came on his wrist.

"But indeed, mademoiselle, you must go away at once," he urged
earnestly. "It is smallpox. Pray, go. You will take the infection."

"But me, I do not intend to go," she replied cheerfully, with her
pretty foreign accent. "You need not be afraid for me, monsieur. See—I
have had it. I am not in danger—not at all. You are fatigué—n'est-ce
pas? It has been a long nursing—yes, so I have heard. When did you take
food last?"

Denham confessed that he had not eaten for some time; he had not
been hungry. Well, perhaps he was a trifle fatigué; but 'twas
nothing—nothing at all. He was ready now for anything. If mademoiselle
would only not put herself in danger! By way of showing his readiness,
he made a movement forward; but he was forced to sit hastily down,
resting his forehead on his hand. The long strain had told upon even
his vigorous constitution.

"Ah!—C'est ca!" she murmured. "But you will be the better, monsieur,
for a cup of coffee."

Ivor had no choice but to yield, and she moved daintily about, making
such coffee as only a Frenchwoman can, and bringing it presently to his
side.

"This is not right," he protested. "I cannot allow you to wait upon me,
mademoiselle!"

She would listen to no remonstrances, however; and when he had disposed
of it, she insisted that he should lie down on a couch in the small
adjoining room, while she undertook to look after Roy. She had her
friends' permission, she said, not explaining that she had refused to
be forbidden; and monsieur in his present state could do no more. How
long was it since he had slept? Ah, doubtless some days!

Ivor gave in, after much resistance, and in ten minutes he was again
heavily asleep. Nature at last claimed her due.

When he woke, after several hours' unbroken rest, he was another man.
Roy seemed much better; the doctor had paid a visit, and was gone;
the room could scarcely be recognised as the same; and Ivor warmly
expressed his gratitude, wondering as he did so at Lucille's look of
steady sadness. She insisted on coming the next day, that he might rest
and have an hour's walk.

"Isn't she jolly?" exclaimed Roy, when the door closed behind her.
"She has told me lots of things while you were asleep. Only think, her
father and mother were both guillotined! Both of them had their heads
cut off. And they hadn't done one single thing to make them deserve it.
They were awfully good and kind to everybody, she says. And she was
only a little girl then; and when they were dead, somebody took her
away to England, and she was there three or four years. And then she
came back to France, and she lives with some people at a place called
Verdun. She says they give her a home, and she works for them. And she
would like to go to England again some day."

But Lucille de St. Roques had not told Roy her more recent sorrow. She
let it out to Captain Ivor a day or two later. Only one year before
this date she had become engaged to young Théodore de Bertrand, son of
the old couple downstairs, and three months later he had been drawn
for the conscription. No use to plead that he was practically an only
son, since the second son, Jacques, was a ne'er-do-weel, who had taken
himself off nobody knew whither. More soldiers were wanted by the First
Consul for his schemes of foreign conquest, and young De Bertrand had
to go. Scarcely four months after his departure news came that he
had been shot in a sortie in the Low Countries. Large tears filled
Lucille's eyes, and dropped slowly.

"Ah! So many more!" she said. "Thousands—thousands—called upon to be
slain for nothing! Not for their country, but for the ambition of one
bad man. It makes no difference, monsieur, that they love not the
usurper. My Théodore was of the Royalist party, yet he had to go. And
the poor old father and mother—they are left without one son in their
old age!"



CHAPTER VIII

THE THREATENED INVASION

THERE is a good deal of variety in the different accounts as to the
number of British subjects who actually suffered arrest in French
dominions on the breaking out of the war. Some estimates amount to as
high a figure as ten thousand; but these seem to have made no allowance
for the rapid homeward rush just at the last. Other estimates give only
a few hundreds, belonging chiefly to the upper ranks of society.

But indeed all classes were included. Not only officers in the Army and
Navy, but lawyers, doctors, clergymen, men of rank, men of business,
artisans, English residents abroad, all alike had the notice of arrest
served upon them. All alike were either thrown into prison, or, if
gentlemen, were ordered immediately to constitute themselves prisoners
of war upon parole, with the alternative of becoming prisoners of war
in strict confinement.

The mass of those détenus who were allowed to be upon their parole
had to go to Fontainebleau; and thither Colonel and Mrs. Baron betook
themselves. On the score of danger to others from infection, a slight
delay was permitted to Ivor, still in charge of Roy.

The question had at once arisen whether Mrs. Baron should not be sent
to England with her boy as soon as he should be fit to travel. Women
were, at least in theory, free to go where they would, provided only
that they could obtain passports. But Mrs. Baron refused to consider
any such proposal. She could not and would not be separated from her
husband. "Of course I shall go with him to Fontainebleau," she said
decisively. "It cannot be for long. Roy must come to us there. It only
means leaving his schooling for a quarter of a year. He will not be
strong enough for work at present; and something is sure to be arranged
soon. Then we shall all go home together."

The general opinion among friends in England was that Roy would
certainly be sent across the Channel so soon as possible. Yet there
were some who doubted. Mrs. Baron was known to be a mother perhaps more
fond than wise; and it seemed conceivable that she might decline to
part with him.

This unlooked-for move of Napoleon's caused a burning outburst
of indignation throughout the length and breadth of England; and
newspapers vied one with another in wrathful condemnation of his
"unmannerly violation of the laws of hospitality."

War once begun was carried on with energy by both the British and
the French. As a first step, Napoleon did his best to damage English
commerce by closing Continental markets against her—supremely careless
of the suffering which he inflicted on his own friends and subjects.
But at this particular game England was the better of the two.

Ironclads were then unknown; and though the great three-deckers, with
their seventy or a hundred guns apiece, could not be built in a day,
yet war-vessels were of every description, from three-deckers down
to merchant-ships, hastily fitted with a few guns, and sent forth to
do their best. In a short time Great Britain had about five hundred
war-vessels, with which she swept the seas, recaptured such Colonies as
had been yielded to France by the Treaty of Amiens, blockaded harbours
in countries subject to the First Consul, and made descents upon
their ports, carrying off prizes in the very teeth of French guns and
fortifications.

Napoleon's next move was definitely to announce his intention of
invading England, of conquering the country, and of making it into a
Province of France.

This was a feat more easily talked of than accomplished. Preparations,
however, were pushed forward on a great scale. Huge flotillas of
flat-bottomed boats, to act as transport for the invading army, were
collected at various places, more especially at Boulogne; and at the
latter spot a camp was formed of between one and two hundred thousand
soldiers, to be in readiness for the moment of action. Also a strong
fleet of French men-of-war was being prepared, to convoy the transports
across the Channel.

Though no true-hearted Englishman believed for a moment in the
possibility of his country becoming a French Province, all knew that
the threatened invasion might take place.

An extraordinary burst of enthusiasm, throughout the whole country, was
the immediate response to Napoleon's threat.

Large supplies of money were freely voted and given. The regular Army
was increased, and the Militia was called out; while a Volunteer force
sprang into being with such rapidity that it soon numbered about four
hundred thousand men.

These citizen-soldiers, as it was the fashion to call them, were
scattered all over the country, each place having its own corps. But
the regular troops, drawn from various parts, were chiefly stationed
where the danger seemed to be the more pressing, between London and the
south coast—Sir David Dundas being in command.

Along the shores were erected batteries and martello towers—many of
which remain to this day. And since Boulogne was the headquarters
of the French army of invasion, an advanced corps was placed on the
opposite coast, near Sandgate, under General Moore, in readiness to
repel the first onslaught.

There Moore occupied his time in such splendid training of the
regiments under his control, that throughout the long years of the
Peninsular War, after he himself had passed away, the stamp of his
spirit rested upon them, the impress of his enthusiasm and of his
magnificent discipline made them the foremost soldiers in the British
Army. Among these were the regiments which, as "The Reserve," bore the
brunt of the fighting in Moore's famous "Retreat," and which were known
in Spain and at Waterloo as Wellington's invincible "Light Brigade."
Wellington used those regiments for the saving of Europe; but Moore
made and tempered the weapon which was to be wielded by Wellington.

To the delight of Jack Keene, an opportunity offered itself whereby he
might effect an exchange into one of the Shorncliffe regiments.

His semi-worshipping admiration for Moore was a reflection, an echo,
of Ivor's deeper devotion. As yet he had seen little of the General,
having met him but a few times. But long before they came together he
had cherished a warm interest in the man—an interest awakened first in
boyish days by Ivor's vivid descriptions of campaigning in the West
Indies; descriptions of which Moore was always the chief figure. Jack
had seized with avidity upon all such details.

When at length the two met, he could feel no wonder at Ivor's intense
and reverent love for Moore. He counted himself thenceforward ready to
live or to die for him, and one day in a fit of confidence he said so
to Polly.

"Nay, Jack; live for him. Do not wish to die for him," pleaded Polly.
"That will be the best."

Jack was not so sure. He could not forget a story told him long before
by Ivor, of a certain heroic Guardsman in the West Indies—a man who had
flung himself between Moore and the musket which was aimed pointblank
at the latter, thus giving his life for that of his officer. But it
was not needful for Jack to explain how readily he would do the same.
He merely smiled, and remarked, "In all England there is no other his
equal. Of that I am assured."

To Jack's disappointment General Moore had been summoned away from Bath
on important duty; and intercourse between them came for the moment
to a close. The young subaltern, however, found it possible to pursue
acquaintance with the General's mother and sister; and gentle old Mrs.
Moore had a great deal to say about this most idolised son of hers,
where she found a sympathetic listener. Few listeners could have been
more sympathetic than Jack Keene, who never grew tired of the subject.
Mrs. Moore had other sons besides the General; but it was noticed that
when she referred to him he was always distinctively—"My son," —not
"My eldest son," nor "My son, John." This did not touch the close
friendship between Moore and his brothers, one of whom was a Naval
officer of mark.

Through these summer weeks of 1803 Polly was longing for Captain Ivor
to come home. It was sad to think of him as a prisoner, forced to stay
in a foreign land. She knew too that any day Jack might be ordered
off; and one day, as she had feared, he rushed in, to tell them that
he would be leaving immediately for Shorncliffe Camp, there to await
Napoleon's first attempt to land on English soil.

The news was less a matter for congratulation to them than to Jack
himself. At Sandgate he would be in the very forefront of the peril
which threatened the land. Mrs. Fairbank had to rub her large horn
spectacles more than once; and she was disposed to blame Jack for not
referring the question to herself, before he accepted the offer of an
exchange. Molly looked curiously at Jack, and asked, "Are you glad to
say good-bye to us all?"

"Not glad to say good-bye, but glad to be going. People must say
good-bye sometimes, Molly. And I shall be fighting under the best and
bravest man that ever lived. Cannot you understand that?"

Polly broke out before Molly could reply. "Yes, indeed, Molly and I
understand. You would be no true soldier, did you not long to be in
the forefront. Jack, she and I have but this morning learned by heart
a verse of Mr. Walter Scott's which 'tis said he has but just writ.
Molly, you shall say the verse to Jack, for they are brave words. Hold
up your head, and speak out, dear, as an Englishwoman should."

Molly obeyed, and spouted with considerable effect:

  "'If ever breath of British gale
         Shall fan the tri-colour,
       Or footstep of invader rude,
    With rapine foul and red with blood,
          Pollute our happy shore,—
       Then farewell home, and farewell friends,—
         Adieu, each tender tie!
            Resolved, we mingle in the tide,
            Where charging squadrons furious ride,
          To conquer, or to die!'"

"Come, that is good. That was well said. And you will both bid me
God-speed. And when Napoleon is beaten, and old England is once
again in safety,—why, then I will return, ma'am, to sit in the
chimney-corner!"

"Yes, yes, Jack,—yes, my dear boy." Mrs. Fairbank, as always when
agitated, knitted at railway speed. "You will do your duty in any case.
Of that I am convinced. And General Moore will be a good friend to you."

Jack detected signs of a possible breakdown, and he stood up.

"Come, Polly,—come, Molly. There is time for a turn in the Pump Room.
You do not dine till half-past three; and my grandmother will be none
the worse for a quiet hour."

Molly looked anxiously for leave, and then flew to get ready. A walk
with Jack was always a treat. They entered the old Pump Room together,
finding there, as usual, a large assemblage of gaily-dressed ladies and
fashionable gentlemen; some walking about, some lounging on seats.

The ladies wore short-waisted gowns of white or figured muslin, with
short cloaks or mantles of bright hues, or short spencers of silk or
coloured crape, and great feathered hats or bonnets, and plenty of
large gilt and silver buttons. Many of the gentlemen were in tights and
long flowered waistcoats and silver-buckled shoes, while others wore
blue coats with brass buttons. Pigtails too might still be seen, though
soon to be discontinued.

Jack and the two girls came all at once face to face with Mrs. Bryce,
Admiral Peirce being her attendant-cavalier.

Both were immensely interested to hear Jack's news, how in less than
a week he would be off to Sandgate, there to be under the command of
General Moore, and—as Jack hoped—to be called upon to bear the first
brunt of Napoleon's expected invasion.

"Not you, my dear sir," objected the Admiral, with a beaming face.
"Before ever Boney reaches British shores, depend on 't he'll have to
render a good account of himself to our ships of war. I doubt me, Boney
won't contrive to give our Navy the slip."

Jack had no wish to get into a discussion. "Well, sir, well, our Navy
and our Army too will both of them do their best," he said. "But
'twould be a foolish fellow who should trust all his eggs in one
basket, as the saying is. And should, by any chance, the slip be given,
and Boney arrive on our shores, why then the Army will make him render
his account fairly! Has anybody seen Mrs. Moore, ma'am?" And he turned
to Mrs. Bryce.

Mrs. Bryce had not the least intention of parting hastily with her
second cavalier. To walk about the Pump Room in view of all her Bath
acquaintances, with a gentleman on either side, was highly desirable.
So Polly and Molly were adroitly dropped behind, and she set off.

"If not Mrs. Moore, Jack, I have seen some one else of passable
interest," she remarked. "Who think you that can be? Nay, I protest,
you shall stay, and you shall guess. Who can it have been?" She flirted
her fan at him.

Jack was quite unable to imagine. "Unless it might chance to be Miss
Moore," he suggested as a happy thought.

"Miss Jane Moore—the General's sister? No, sir, no—no Moore at all.
Yet a 'Jane' notwithstanding. Her name is Miss Jane Austen—a well-bred
young woman, I do assure you, who lives with her parents and sister
at 4 Sydney Place, in the Green Park Buildings. And only to think—the
good lady has writ a book which may by chance one day be printed. Yes,
indeed, and it is so, I do declare. To think of that, my dear Jack! A
whole actual book, 'tis said, written and finished, and bought from
Miss Jane Austen by one of our Bath booksellers, for the sum of ten
pounds. I'm on no account to divulge the name of the bookseller; for
now he's done his bargain, he's much in doubt if ever the tale will pay
him for the expense of printing it. 'Tis a story of the name of some
sort of Abbey. But if you come across the good lady, Miss Jane Austen
herself, you may not tell her one word of what I have told to you, for
'tis a solemn secret from everybody. 'Twas told my husband in strictest
confidence, and if I had not wormed it out of him—Ah! ha! Jack, wait
till you get a wife, and then you'll not smile on that side of your
mouth."

"I have found my bride, ma'am. 'Tis my Profession," declared Jack, in a
manner which nowadays would be looked upon as grandiloquent, but which
in those days was quite the right thing for an enthusiastic young man.

"Nay, nay, nothing of the sort, my dear sir! Wait a while, and you'll
find your affections engaged in another fashion. Can you be so
hard-hearted as to hold out even now, in the face of all this youth
and elegance? See, there goes a bewitching young woman; though 'tis
true she wears a shocking unbecoming gown. But she's a prodigious
favourite, and she can dance as tolerable a minuet as any young female
present. Then there's young Susie yonder—something of a hoyden, maybe,
and calls herself 'a dasher,' but uncommonly pretty, and prodigiously
good spirits. And if you'd sooner have a bluestocking, why, I've but to
introduce you to Miss Jane Austen herself."

"And if I have no sort of wish for none of these good people, madam?"
demanded Jack, dropping involuntarily into the fashionable jargon of
the day, so much affected by Mrs. Bryce.

"Why, then, Jack, I'll declare you are no true cavalier, nor worthy of
your profession," smartly responded the good lady.



CHAPTER IX

OUR HERO

THOUGH the name of John Moore is inscribed in letters of blood upon the
deathless roll of our National Heroes, not so much is known about him
by people in general as ought to be known. A few words as to his past
life may not be out of place.

His father, a Scots physician of eminence, and also a successful
author, had been appointed guardian and travelling-companion to the
young Duke of Hamilton; and during "Jack's" boyhood, from the age of
about ten to fifteen, the latter shared in the Continental travels of
Dr. Moore and his ward. The doctor showed himself well fitted for the
trust reposed in him, while his son from the first shone as a star in
whatever circle he moved.

As a child John Moore was impulsive, hasty-tempered, and addicted to
fighting; but he early learned self-control, and he was of a remarkably
noble and generous disposition. By the age of fourteen he had become a
fascinating young fellow, with a face of manly beauty, a daring temper,
and a growing passion for the Army. Already he was a good linguist,
and an adept at both riding and fencing. About this time, when in
the course of their travels the three went to Vienna, the Emperor of
Austria definitely offered to take the brilliant boy into his service,
promising rapid promotion. But Moore was far too ardent a patriot to
serve in any Army save that of his own country.

Dr. Moore, writing to his wife, described his son affectionately as
"attentive, active, and brave," with "great good sense," and "the most
beautiful and graceful boy imaginable;" adding, "Jack does not stoop
as the Duke, but will have a good carriage; and though he is so very
pretty, he has not the least tendency to be a coxcomb." Not long after,
again he wrote with fatherly pride: "Never was a creature less spoiled
than your son by all the great people who have caressed him, nor by all
the uncommon fine situations he has been in. Though his manner is manly
and noble, yet it is simple, and he assumes no airs. He is a charming
youth. I wish you had him in your arms." Often must this most loving
of mothers have wished the same, while her son was visiting half the
Courts of Europe.

At the age of fifteen John became Ensign in the first Regiment, and a
few months later he wrote of it as "one of the best regiments in the
service ... There is no such thing as either drinking or gambling going
on."

In 1777 he joined the Duke of Hamilton's regiment, and went out to Nova
Scotia, where he had hard fighting, and gained much credit for personal
prowess.

Before the close of 1783 peace was proclaimed between Great Britain and
her four enemies, France, Spain, Holland, and the United States. Though
Britain in those days had much less than half her present population,
she was wont most cheerfully to engage in war with three or four
nations at one and the same time, with no misgivings as to results.

The "Hamilton Regiment" being disbanded, Captain Moore, then
twenty-three years old, went home to live with his parents on
half-pay—the doctor by this time having a London practice. Moore
studied hard, and was much in society, being a universal favourite. For
a while he represented four Scots burghs in Parliament, though with a
stipulation on his part that he should be free always to follow his own
judgment. Moore never became in the narrower sense a party man. He had
his own firm convictions, but he made friends on all sides. He fought
for country, not for party.

In 1737 he once more gladly forsook civil for military duties. A year
later, when he had rejoined his old regiment, the 51st, at Cork, a
lifelong friendship sprang up between him and young Ensign Anderson.
From that time the two were almost inseparable companions.

By this date Moore was known as a disciplinarian of unusual power,
indulgent when he might safely be so, but inflexible in enforcing
strict obedience. In an age when hard drinking was the fashion, he set
his face like a flint against habits of intemperance among officers
and men; and in an age when hard swearing was the "mode," strong
expressions were never heard from his lips.

In 1792 he was ordered to Malta; and two years later, the peace having
already ended, he was fighting the French in Corsica. Two or three
years later still, he was made Brigadier-General by the King and the
Duke of York, and was despatched to the West Indies, to serve under
Abercromby. Sir Charles Stuart, while in command at Sicily, had become
one of his intimate friends; and Abercromby now became another. The
Duke of York and Pitt, from the time of his seat in Parliament, had
been also among the long list of those warmly attached to him. Wherever
Moore went he made friends for life.

It was at this period, when Moore was in the West Indies, that Ivor,
then a subaltern, was first thrown under his captivating influence.

As usual, opportunities occurred for the display of individual bravery,
in which Moore always shone; and in those days of hard fighting Ivor
too had won laurels and promotion. Moore's influence over the younger
officers was unrivalled; and many a one besides Ivor could look back,
long after, with the knowledge that Moore had been the making of him,
not only as a soldier but as a man. He shaped the characters of those
with whom he had to do.

When St. Lucia had been wrested from the French, Moore was appointed
Commandant and Governor of the Island: no easy post, for the blacks
were fearfully barbarous in their methods of warfare. After being twice
laid low by desperate attacks of yellow fever, ill though Moore could
be spared, he had to be sent home.

He reached England a mere wreck of his former self; but little rest
could in those days be allowed to Britain's gallant sons. He had a
short time with those whom he loved best—with the mother especially,
who was more to him than all the world beside. Then he was again
ordered off; first to survey the eastern coast, in preparation for
a threatened French invasion; afterward against Irish rebels in our
unquiet sister isle. There he was prostrated anew by severe illness;
there he made fresh friends; there once more he was found an invaluable
helper by those in authority.

From Ireland he was ordered to Holland, where Abercromby stood
imperatively in need of him. Ten thousand British troops had been sent,
not to fight the Dutch, but to rescue them from the French yoke. On
the 2nd of October, Moore, in the course of five hours' determined
fighting, received two wounds. The first he ignored. The second felled
him to the ground; and he would have been made prisoner, but that his
men carried him off.

Ivor had accompanied him to Holland; and when, in the year 1800, the
memorable Expedition to Egypt took place, Moore being still under his
old commander, Abercromby, Ivor to his delight was still under Moore.

In a desperate action, on the 20th of March, Moore was a second time
wounded in the leg, and as before he fought on, disregarding it.
Abercromby too was shot in the thigh, and did not even mention the
fact until the victory was won. The two friends never met again; for
Abercromby died of his wound before Moore was able to go to him.

On the Peace of Amiens, Moore returned to England, in time to see
his father, who was dying of old age and heart disease. The doctor's
property was left between his wife and his six children; and Moore,
not content with his mother's jointure, insisted on giving her an
additional annuity.

Thus for years the name of John Moore had been incessantly before the
British public, as the bravest of the brave; having become by this time
the one name, before any other save that of Nelson, to which in the
hour of peril his countrymen would turn.

What was it about this remarkable man which so riveted the hearts of
others to him? Not the hearts of women only, though in truth his mother
and sister idolised him. But vigorous men, stern soldiers, poured
upon him a very passion of devotion. Denham Ivor was one, Jack Keene
was another, among scores who looked upon John Moore as the living
embodiment of all that a soldier and a gentleman ought to be, who loved
him with unbounded ardour.

Buonaparte was worshipped, and was followed unto death by his soldiers,
as a great captain. Moore, in addition to being so followed, was loved
as a man, with that love which men only give to strong men, and not to
many among them.

Wherever Moore turned, he found this love. His own brothers lavished
it upon him. The Duke of Hamilton was his fervent friend for life.
Anderson was to him as Jonathan to David. The three gallant Napiers,
Charles, George, and William, adored him. His French servant, Francois,
forgot home and country for his sake. Private soldiers were ready to
rush upon certain death, if so they might save his life. Officers of
rank, working with him, became almost inevitably his personal friends.
The younger officers, under his command and training, so caught the
infection of his high spirit, so responded to the influence of "their
hero," that by dozens in after years they became prominent characters
in the Army and leaders in the Nation. He has been truly called "a king
among men."

No doubt his striking personal appearance, his indescribable charm of
manner, perhaps too his brilliant and witty conversational powers,
had something to do with his influence. But those things which really
lay at the foundation of this extraordinary control over others were,
mainly, the force of his character, the vivid enthusiasm of his
purpose, the loftiness of his ideals, the simple grandeur of his life.

He had his enemies. No truly great man, who does not stoop to pander
to the littlenesses of little men, ever fails to make some enemies. It
could not be otherwise. Jealousy alone was sure to turn some against
him. Moreover, his inviolable integrity, his blameless name, the
splendid disdain with which he spurned everything false and mean—such
qualities as these in Moore made some of a baser type turn from and
even turn against one who was so infinitely more noble than themselves.
But to men of a higher and purer stamp Moore was, as the Bayard of the
Middle Ages had been to a former generation, a knight sans peur et sans
reproche, a model upon which they might seek to shape themselves.

With Ivor, as with many another, to have known Moore was to have been
imbued for life with new aims, new ideals, new views of duty, new
thoughts of self-abnegation. Not so much from what John Moore might
here or there have said, as from what he always was. To be under the
man was in itself an inspiration.



Soon after Jack's departure for Sandgate, Admiral Peirce was called
away on duty; and the Bryces decided to flit eastward. Mrs. Bryce, who
loved sensation, talked of a visit to Folkestone, a tiny watering-place
in those days, but within reach of Sandgate and of Moore's camp at
Shorncliffe; and she offered to take Polly with her. Polly had kept up
bravely under her separation from Ivor; but her pretty face had lost
some of its colour, and the change might do her good. Polly of course
was charmed. Who would not have been in her place? She would see Jack
again, also Jack's Commander and England's Hero, General Moore. She
would be in the thick of all that was going on, and would learn the
news of the hour at first-hand.

So the Bryces and Polly went, and Molly was left behind with old Mrs.
Fairbank. Nobody saw aught to object to in the arrangement; and Molly
said nothing. But in later years she often looked back with a shudder
to those autumn weeks.

She had none with her by whom she was understood, or to whom she could
freely talk. She was cut off from her father, from her mother, from her
twin, from Polly and from Jack. News from the prisoners arrived very
seldom, and plenty of room was left for Molly's childish imagination to
bring her misery.

Those were days of far severer imprisonment than these are; dungeons
and chains being in constant use. Molly had heard enough, even in her
short life, of fettered and half-starved captives, to cause her to be
haunted by doleful visions as to the durance vile which Roy might have
to endure.

In the daytime, when she was fully occupied, it was easier to take a
cheerful view of life; but Molly's sufferings began with nightfall.
Often she would start out of a restless sleep, fancying that she saw
Roy in some noisome dungeon, with chains upon his wrists, while his
grey eyes appealed to her pitifully for help. She would hide her face
and sob; and in the midst of her woe would come the sound of the old
watchman, shaking his rattle as he passed down the street, and singing
out monotonously, "Past one o'clock, and a starlight night;" or, it
might be, "Past three o'clock, and a rainy morning!"

Molly would listen, shivering, to the prolonged utterance; and
sometimes she would wonder if the old watchman ever went to sleep.
Then, as the voice died away, she would drop off herself; and when
again she woke, she would be hugging her pillow, under a vague
impression that she had Roy in her arms.

But of these troubled nights Molly said not a word to any human being.
The only person whom she could have told was Polly, and Polly had gone
away.



CHAPTER X

THE FRENCH FLEET SIGNALLED

MRS. BRYCE could seldom be happy for long in one place. Before the end
of September she had decided to quit Folkestone for Sandgate. Polly was
charmed, and Mr. Bryce made no serious objection.

"If Buonaparte should come, my dear, what then?" was all that he
ventured to suggest; and Mrs. Bryce snapped her fingers at the First
Consul.

"Let him come, if so it pleases him. Pray, Mr. Bryce, do you consider
that we are bound to shape our course with a view to gratifying old
Nap?" demanded the vivacious lady.

Mr. Bryce wondered privately what his wife's feelings would be, if one
day a round shot from a French man-of-war should rush through the room
in which she was seated. But to Sandgate they went, on a rainy autumn
day, when the sea wailed dismally, and the wind howled more dismally
still, and the lodgings which Mr. Bryce had managed to secure wore an
aspect most dismal of all. Even Mrs. Bryce's spirits were affected by
the state of the atmosphere.

Books in their possession were few, and had already been read. Jack
failed to appear so soon as they had expected. Mr. Bryce sallied
forth, despite the rain; but the ladies could not think of following
his example. Mrs. Bryce in despair turned to some old volumes of the
Gentleman's Magazine, lying in a corner; and in so doing, to her
gratification, she fished out two or three recent numbers of the same
serial.

"Ah, ha, my dear Polly, now we shall do," she declared cheerfully. "Now
we may defy the elements, and you shall get on with your purse-netting,
and I will find something to read aloud for your entertainment. I
wonder much that Jack does not come."

"Jack is busy, or he would be here," Polly said confidently. Just as
she had her half-netted blue silk purse nicely arranged between foot
and knee, Mr. Bryce walked in, carrying letters,—at the sight of which
Polly dropped her work, and started up.

"Nay, not from France. Nothing from France," Mr. Bryce said with quick
understanding; and Polly returned to her seat languidly. "One from Bath
for you, and one from Norfolk for my wife. Two letters in a day! You
ladies may count yourselves fortunate."

Mr. Bryce disappeared anew, and Polly remarked, "My grandmother has
written to me."

"Read it aloud, Polly. 'Twill serve before the Magazine," quoth Mrs.
Bryce, and Polly complied, looking ahead, lest she should stumble upon
any sentence meant only for herself. The letter ran as follows:

                                             "Bath, Oct. 28, 1803."

   "MY DEAR POLLY,—Yours to Molly has very seriously disquieted my mind,
I assure you. If General Moore, with his gᵗ experience considers that the
French landing may be apprehended as likely soon to Take Place, 'tis
sure the height of imprudence for you to remain in that neighbourhood,
where the French Army, if it lands, will doubtless Pillage and Burn to
the best of their Ability."

   "Nor does it appear to me, my dear Polly, that you will be greatly the
better off in Lonⁿ, where certainly the Invading Army will immediately
march, so soon as it has effected a Landing."

   "I am therefore about to Propose what seems to me the wiser plan for
all of you. Which is, that you and Mrs. Bryce shou'd return again to
Bath, without Delay, leaving Mr. Bryce, as Dou'tless he will desire, to
take his proper share in the Defence of our Country. If Mrs. Bryce be
willing to act according to this plan, I most gladly offer to her such
Humble Accommodation as is in my power to bestow. The aspect of affairs
is truly Alarming; and if it be seriously apprehended that Lonⁿ is like
to be in greater danger of Bustle and Trouble than Bath, there is no
Necessity for you all to remain in that part of England. If Mrs. Bryce
can dispense for a while with the Good Table to which she is used, and
can put up with more Humble Fare, then every friendly Accommodation in
my power is at her Service."

   "Last Saturday there appear'd before the Market Place forty-three
Blacks, who said they had been prisoners to the french, but had been
retaken, and were come to offer themselves volunteers to King George.
The Country men stared at them, and the women cried out. The next
morning here arrived a coach-full of the same colour. They are all sent
to Marlborough, how to be disposed of I don't know."

   "My love to Jack, who I hope will not be spoiled by his many
friends,—alas, too frequently the case in these days of scarcity of
Good Young Men. Molly is well and behaves herself."

   "Bath, it is expected, will soon be crowded with Irish Company.
A great many large houses were engaged last week. The Bristol people
think that, were the french to effect a landing on some of the Welsh
coasts, they might soon expect to be troubled with them there and at
Bath. Several meetings have been held on this subject. But 'tis the
opinion of most that Lonⁿ lies in greater danger."

   "Yesterday was a solemn day for humiliation. The places of worship
were well attended; and the Clergy here exerted themselves, I trust,
to the best of their Abilitys."

   "May God graciously avert from Old England so great a Calamity as
the presence of an Enemy upon her soil."

        "Adieu.—Your affectionate Grandmother,"

                                     "C. FAIRBANK."

Mrs. Bryce pronounced the writer's mode of expression to be "vastly
old-fashioned."

"But when you write, you may thank her all the same. Mrs. Fairbank
means it kindly, and if I thought old Nap would come in truth—but 'tis
all bluster and empty boasting. For my part, I put no sort of belief in
any invasion of our shores. But you may inform her that I am sincerely
grateful; and that, should occasion arise, I will not fail to avail
myself of her hospitality."

Then Mrs. Bryce turned to her own letter.

"From my cousin in Norfolk. And if you'll believe it, Polly, they're
all in a bustle and a fright there too, lest Nap should land first on
the eastern coast. He'll have enough on hand, if he's to go everywhere
that's expected of him. And if he goes there, they'll get them away
into the fen country, where 'tis thought the French soldiers won't be
able to follow."

Before Polly could reply, Jack walked in, and with him a young man,
Albert Peirce by name, nephew to the Admiral, and subaltern in one of
the Shorncliffe regiments.

Introductions followed, and Polly bestowed one of her most graceful
curtseys upon the newcomer. No doubt Polly liked to be admired, as was
natural in so pretty a girl; and she read instant appreciation of her
charms in Mr. Peirce's face. So she did her best to be agreeable to him
during the next two hours, and she seemed to be in very good spirits.
Whether those spirits remained equally good after she had disappeared
for the night, she alone could know.

Early the next morning, Polly was roused by agitated sounds.

"Polly! Polly! Wake up this instant, Polly! I vow and protest, the
child is crazed! Wake up, Polly! Polly, do you hear—they're coming!"

Polly roused herself with great deliberation. Though lively enough at
night, she was a heavy sleeper in the morning; and she dragged herself
to a sitting posture, with half-shut eyes and loosely hanging hair,
looking, it must be conceded, not quite so lovely as was her wont.

"Must I get up already, ma'am? 'Tis early."

"Get up! And already! 'Tis time you bestirred yourself in good earnest!
Polly, they're coming! They're on their way hither."

"Jack and Mr. Peirce!" Polly yawned.

"Jack and Mr. Peirce, quotha! Why, 'tis the French! Cannot you
understand, child? I've ever said 'twas nonsense, and they'd never
truly come. But they're off! they're on their way! And the wind is
favourable, and tis all up with us." Mrs. Bryce frantically wrung
her hands, standing beside the curtained bed, in her flowered
dressing-gown, her hair hanging loose, though not descending so low as
Polly's abundant mane, while her face was yellow-white with terror.
"And what we're to do nobody knows. Two French fleets of transports,
and a whole French army aboard! And bonfires alight, and folks all
astir, and there will be fighting, and people will be killed. And Mr.
Bryce will sure be in the thick of everything, and he will get shot,
and I shall be left a widow, Polly."

Mrs. Bryce collapsed on the foot of the bed. "And we might have been
safe away, if I hadn't made such a prodigious fool of myself, never
thinking for a moment that old Nap meant a word of what he said. I
protest, 'tis enough to drive one distracted. I'll never in my life go
to the sea-coast again, not for no sort of consideration! And they say
old Nap'll be here in a few hours, Polly, and there's no way of getting
off;—not a horse to be had for love or money! If I'd had a notion of
it, I'd never have stopped here."

By this time Polly had grasped the situation, and her drowsiness was
gone. She sprang out of bed upon her little white toes, and made
a movement akin to dancing, as she flung a pink wrapper round her
shoulders. This was being in luck, she would have said, if she had
spoken out her first thought. To find herself in the very thick of it
all—as safe as if a hundred miles away, with Moore and his soldiers
to protect her, yet able to see everything!—it was delightful. Polly
was a high-spirited girl, not easily alarmed; and fear found no corner
in her mind this morning. She was simply eager and excited; whereas
Mrs. Bryce, who from sheer perversity had refused to believe in even
the possibility of an invasion, and who from sheer lack of imagination
had failed to realise beforehand what such an invasion might mean, was
overwhelmed with terror.



CHAPTER XI

A MISTAKEN READING

"HAS Jack been?" asked Polly.

"Jack—no. How should Jack be spared? He is wanted, of course. They'll
all be wanted," moaned Mrs. Bryce. "And they'll all be killed. And we
shall be taken prisoners, and be carried away to France, and put into
dungeons, and never see England again."

"I shouldn't greatly mind going to France—if they would but let me be
where—somebody is," murmured Polly. "But they won't—they'll never get
here. Napoleon has no such easy task before him. They'll never get past
our soldiers. Why, think—we've General Moore."

"Nay, but that's the worst! He's away at Dungeness Point. And the
French will land before ever he can get back. The whole world is gone
wrong."

"Where's Mr. Bryce?"

"Gone off to see what is being done. I could not keep him back. I
protest, he'd no business to leave me. If the French arrive, I shall
die of terror on the spot."

Polly executed another dainty pas on the bare boards.

"Hadn't we best make ready, ma'am, before they come?" she cheerfully
asked.

"It's no manner of use, child. They may arrive any moment. Any moment,
I tell you! and what on earth shall we do then?"

Polly suggested a preference for seeing the French in her frock rather
than in a condition of undress; and with much coaxing she managed
to get Mrs. Bryce back into the next room. Then, with all possible
expedition, she made her morning toilette, flitting lightly about, and
wondering what would happen next. After which, discovering that Mrs.
Bryce's maid had fallen into a fit of hysterics over the prospect of
"them Mounseers a-coming," she took the maid's place.

By the time that they both were dressed, Mr. Bryce returned with a good
deal to tell. The whole place was in a grand commotion. An express had
been despatched to General Moore at Dungeness Point, telling him of the
news received from Folkestone, and informing him that the brigade was
already under arms. The Volunteers had turned promptly out, also the
Sea-Fencibles; and each man was prepared to do and dare his utmost in
defence of home and country.

"Not a dull face to be seen, nor a frightened one—except—" declared
Mr. Bryce, rubbing his hands, with a glance at the wan cheek of his
usually lively wife. "All the world in high spirits—specially the
soldiers! Jack only hopes that nothing may turn back the fleet. 'Tis
time Napoleon should have a sharp lesson, he says. Heigho, Polly, you
are fresh as a rose this morning. Come, we'll have our breakfast while
we may. I see no need to starve out of compliment to the First Consul."

"And pray, sir, take me out after," implored Polly.

"Nay, child, you're safer in here. Perchance you'd be hurt in the
bustle. Besides, it may be Jack will run in for a word, and he would be
vexed to find you gone."

This was a cogent argument, and Polly submitted. She roved about the
room, looking much out of the window, and singing under her breath
scraps from ballads of the day. First came:

   "Our bugles sang truce, for the night cloud had lowered,
      And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky,
    And thousands had sunk on the ground, overpowered,
      The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die."

      *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

   "Stay, stay with us—rest—thou art weary and worn—
      And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay—
    But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn,
      And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away."

Polly made a break here, before her sweet voice took up another strain,
more softly uttered:

   "When you're parted, Polly Oliver,
      Parted from your own true love,
    Will you be true, Polly Oliver,
      True to your own true love?"

   "Yes; though the waves divide us,—
      Yes; wheresoever you rove,—
    I'm ever your own little Polly,
      Ever your true, true love!"

She had altered it slightly, half by instinct, dropping the surname in
the last verse.

"In truth, Polly, you seem mighty indifferent to Napoleon's doings,"
objected Mrs. Bryce; after which she inquired of her husband how they
were to escape inland.

"Why, that I do not precisely see," Mr. Bryce answered, with
exasperating satisfaction. "Every man in the place will be wanted,
and not a horse can be spared. Doubtless General Moore will arrange
matters. I think 'tis needful that we should wait a while, and see what
may happen. 'Tis a question in my mind whether the French can ever get
so far as to the coast of England."

Mrs. Bryce recurred hysterically to her former assertion that they
might arrive at any moment.

"Hardly that, since ships must take time. But 'tis true they've
signalled from Folkestone that the enemy's boats had left Calais, and
that the transports and ships at Ostend were also out and steering
westerly. So, with this wind, they'll perchance be here in a few hours,
if our fleet do not cut them out on their way. And I promise them
they'll have a warm reception, if they come. Eh, Polly! We're making
ready for 'em."

"I can't have you leave us again—not for no sort of consideration,"
urged Mrs. Bryce. "Your duty, my dear, is to protect us. If the French
come, what may Polly and I do?"

"They've a few small difficulties to get over first," Mr. Bryce
remarked drily. "'Tis no case of walking quietly on shore. I'll be back
in time to protect you both—though indeed, should the French arrive, my
place would be in the ranks with others."

Mr. Bryce had not been in such spirits for many a day. He was a quiet
and meek-mannered man generally; but the prospect of a fight made him
feel young again. When next he returned, he carried a musket with
supreme satisfaction. Few middle-aged men have not some remnants of
boyhood in them; and all the boyhood in Mr. Bryce came that day to the
surface. He studied his new weapon with glee, talking much to Polly of
"firelocks," fingering daintily the touch-hole, showing her how the
spark from the flint would set the gunpowder on fire, and foretelling
the certain death of some unfortunate French conscript, forced to fight
for Boney against his will.

"Nay, sir, but you need not kill him," remonstrated Polly. "Only fire
at his limbs, pray, and we will nurse him till he is well again."

"I have writ a letter to your grandmother, Polly," Mrs. Bryce said
in quavering tones. "Where is the wax? I wish it fastened at once. I
protest, I've scarce strength to lift a penholder. But I've informed
her that we'll go to Bath so soon as ever we may. I trust only that
we'll not be taken prisoners for life before ever we're away from this."

Somewhat later, no further news having reached them, Mr. Bryce again
sallied forth, and this time he consented to take Polly, both of them
promising to return to Mrs. Bryce on the very first intimation that the
invading fleet had been sighted. They had not walked far when a man on
horseback drew near at a quick trot.

"'Tis himself!" Polly exclaimed, with enthusiasm. Both she and Mr.
Bryce knew well that soldierly figure, with its peerless grace of
bearing.

"All now will go well," murmured Mr. Bryce. "Let Napoleon come, and
welcome—so long only as Moore is at hand."

Polly did not catch his words.

"The General! 'Tis the General, sir."

They stood still, and Moore, drawing rein sharply, sprang to the
ground. He was well bespattered with mud, and he had the look of having
ridden hard and fast.

"So," he said, breaking into a smile which lighted up his whole
face,—"so 'tis a false alarm this time."

Polly's exclamation contained a note of something like disappointment.
Mr. Bryce seemed more gratified than astonished. The General's keen
glance went from the one to the other.

"Due to a mistaken signal," he remarked briefly, "which the
signal-officer at Folkestone understood to mean what it did not mean.
The French transports have not left their stations, either at Calais or
at Ostend."

"And you, sir, were at Dungeness Point," observed Mr. Bryce. "You must
have ridden the twenty miles thence at a great speed."

"At full gallop, the entire distance. My horse, poor fellow, is I fear
the worse. Not this one; I have mounted another. But the alarm is
scarce a subject for regret. The spirit displayed on all sides has been
of the best."

"Will Napoleon really come, think you, sir?" asked Polly, half shy,
half brave.

"If his intention be to come before the winter, he has little time to
lose," Moore answered courteously, and also with a touch of reserve;
for privately he had not much faith in the threatened invasion.

"And you think he may do so, in very truth?"

"He may doubtless make the attempt—if he choose. The question is
rather, what will he gain by it? It would seem, however, that
Government is in greater apprehension of invasion now than a while
since. Three more regiments join me here next Tuesday."

[Illustration: He mounted and rode off.]

"'Tis better to be over-careful than under-careful," suggested Mr.
Bryce.

"And the stronger the front that we present, the less likely are we to
be attacked. But I must away. Sir David Dundas will be soon arriving.
My compliments to Mrs. Bryce. She is not, I hope, the worse for this
alarm."

"Somewhat shaken, sir; but we will return to cheer her spirits. She
proposes flight to Bath for greater safety."

"She might perhaps go to a worse place," the General said, as he
mounted and rode off, with a parting salute.

"Well, Polly?" They had watched him out of sight; and Mr. Bryce turned
to his companion.

"Well, sir?" echoed Polly in arch tones.

"The false alarm at least has served to show of what metal some folks
are made," remarked Mr. Bryce drily.



CHAPTER XII

ORDERED TO VERDUN

"MOTHER!" cried Roy, bursting into the sitting-room at Fontainebleau,
one wintry day. "Ma'am—what do you think?"

Roy by this time was quite recovered from his illness, though his face
carried traces of it in the shape of several small red pits, which
had not yet had time to lose their prominence. He was still small and
childish for his years,—a good-looking lad, but for those disfiguring
marks. His eyes sparkled with excitement. Ivor, who happened to be in
the background, made a silencing gesture, but Roy was too eager to
notice it.

"Only think! All of us are ordered off to Verdun! Why, that is where
Mademoiselle de St. Roques lives. We shall see her again. I shall like
that, but 'tis horrid having to go further away from home. Everybody
says what a beastly shame it is. It's a fortified town, and we
prisoners are to be in stricter keeping."

Roy liked to speak of himself as a prisoner, even while he chafed
furiously against the restraints of imprisonment. He objected to the
indignity of being counted so young as not to be worth detention. "I am
quite as old as lots of middies," he would declare. "And only two or
three years younger than General Moore when he began to be a soldier."
This assertion generally brought laughter, for nobody ever guessed Roy
at thirteen to be more than ten or eleven.

"You should not startle your mother, Roy," the Colonel said gravely,
as Mrs. Baron's eyes grew wide and terrified. "You should have waited
until I spoke."

Roy began to see, too late, the nature of his blunder.

"I'm sorry, sir. But shall we go by diligence or poste, or will you
have a carriage?"

"A carriage, probably, for your mother and Den and myself."

The words were said deliberately. Colonel Baron had made up his mind in
that moment to take the bull by the horns. Delay now would be useless.

"And me, sir?"

Colonel Baron's silence spoke more plainly to his wife than to Roy. She
stood up, and with her graceful step moved across, to lay one slender
hand on either of her boy's shoulders. Colonel Baron knew that in her
mind, as in his, was the promise she had given months before, that, if
they should have to go to a greater distance from England, she would
then consent to Roy's return.

Her husband knew that she would not try to draw back from her word;
but neither would she hide what the keeping of it would cost her. The
détenus had pretty well given up hopes of any speedy release; and
she could not but know that a parting from her boy might mean long
separation. It was hard to be away from Molly, but in that respect
Colonel Baron was the greater sufferer, since he had always doted
especially on his little girl. To part with Roy would be to Mrs. Baron
simply heart-breaking. But she had promised; and Colonel Baron would
not let her off her promise.

"Why, ma'am, you don't mind it so much as that! I wouldn't cry for old
Boney," remonstrated Roy, as her tears fell heavily.

Colonel Baron came close, and she turned from Roy to lean against him,
breaking into bitter sobs.

"My dear heart, we must think of the boy—not of ourselves," urged the
Colonel. "Think how much better for him to be at school in England. But
for Den, this life would be ruination for him."

"Am I to go home?" asked Roy, as a few more words from his father
revealed the state of the case. "Will Napoleon let me?"

The gentlemen exchanged glances. "You are not a détenu," replied
Colonel Baron, though his mind misgave him, for he had heard lately
of more than one instance in which an attempt to get a passport had
proved a failure. "There ought to be no difficulty. I must apply for a
passport at once."

Roy stood thinking. "And I shall see Molly again," he remarked. "It
does seem an awful long while since I left her. Shall I go to school?
And shall I spend my holidays in Bath till you and my mother come home?"

Mrs. Baron hid her face.

"Yes, of course,—I see—I ought to go," pursued Roy. "It wouldn't do for
me to stop on here. In two or three years I've got to be a soldier, and
then Napoleon would want to keep me altogether. I'd much better be off.
How soon can I start? It will be jolly to see Molly again."

Roy was making matters worse, and Ivor stood up, throwing aside his
book. "Come!" he said shortly, with an imperative sign, and Roy
followed. Outside the house Ivor remarked, "You must be more careful.
You have to think of your mother's feelings."

Roy looked up in surprise. "Did I say something wrong?"

"Could you not see? She is breaking her heart at the thought of losing
you. Just imagine what it will be to her not to have her boy any
longer. Don't let her think you are glad to go."

"But I'm not glad to leave her. Of course I'm not. I'm only glad to go
to England, and to see Molly, and to be free to fight as soon as I'm
old enough. I should think she'd understand."

A curious expression crossed the other's face. "You can hardly expect
her to want you to fight. That's not the way with mothers. The last
thing she would wish would be for you to hold back, but she will be
unhappy. You can't possibly know what the parting will be to her, but
still you can be kind. Really brave men are always kind as well as
brave, you know."

Roy showed signs of being impressed. He knew Denham to be so gallant a
soldier that words of this sort coming from him had especial weight.
Neither spoke again directly. Roy walked fast, doing his best to match
Ivor's long stride, though compelled now and then to make a droll
little extra step, if he would not be left behind.

"Yes, of course," he said at length. "I suppose that's what we men have
to do. I mean, we have to try not to make women unhappy. When I get
back I don't mean ever to make Molly cry again."

The application for Roy's passport was duly made, and a formal reply
promised attention. There the matter stood still. Colonel Baron
deferred the journey to Verdun as long as possible, hoping to receive
the passport; but it failed to arrive.

Some discussion took place as to the possibility of leaving Roy in
Fontainebleau; but this, in the then state of France, was felt to be
too great a risk. Once parted, they might be unable to come together
again. And though a good deal of kindness had been shown to English
prisoners by French residents, yet there was no one with whom they
could be content to place Roy for an indefinite time. Not Colonel Baron
only, but his wife too, by this time greatly regretted not having sent
Roy home at the first, when leave had been more readily granted.

Roy rebelled angrily. He had liked to talk of himself grandly as a
"prisoner of war," feeling that he was free. It was another matter to
find himself really a prisoner, and he was unhappy and furious by turns.

"It's too beastly disgusting," he declared to his chief confidant.
"That old wretch of a Boney. I wish I could shoot him."

"You must be more careful, Roy. Walls have ears in France."

"He hasn't any right to keep me. I've a right to go home."

"I'm afraid the First Consul cares little for any man's rights, except
his own."

"Den, don't you want to go home?"

Did he not want it? The handsome bronzed face, which had of late grown
thinner than its wont, looked at Roy with a concentrated stillness.
"Yes; more than you can understand, perhaps. When I think of all that
is going on elsewhere—"

"You'd like to be fighting under Sir John Moore, wouldn't you? And it
makes one so mad to be penned up here for nothing."

Roy's words found too sharp an echo in Denham's mind to be met lightly.
He said after a slight pause: "If you feel so, can't you see what it
must be to me?"

Roy was conscious of something unusual in the quiet features.

"Den, I say—"

"Of course the state of things can't but be a trouble—a great trouble.
But sometimes one has to be brave in captivity as well as in fighting.
And Napoleon will not be allowed to go on always unchecked. I believe
that in time England will make headway against him."

"And if England did do it—and you and I were to be all the while
here—not able to help—"

Another distinct break.

"Won't do for us to think about that, Roy."

Roy instinctively changed the subject.

"I don't think mother is sorry that I'm going to Verdun."

"She is not sorry for our sake—any more than I am. I have been
wondering what in the world I should do without my friend Roy."

"Den, am I your friend truly?" Roy clutched the young Guardsman's arm.
"Would you be sorry if I went?" He read a plain answer in the other's
look. "O then I don't mind,—then I'll be glad. I don't care, if you
like to have me. I thought I was just a bother. I'd rather be your
friend than anybody's." And in the same breath, "I say, when shall we
see Mademoiselle de St. Roques?"

"What do you think of lodging in her home? The old people with whom she
lives would be glad to let their upstairs floors. Yes, I think we shall
do it."

One day later, the passport being still withheld, Roy started, in
company with his parents and Denham, on the cold and dismal journey to
Verdun. Happily Colonel Baron could afford to travel with some degree
of comfort. Many of the unfortunate British détenus were in a far worse
case. Having no means of their own to pay for chaise or diligence,
they had to go on foot, under the charge of gendarmes, sleeping at
night in common jails, with filthy and vermin-invested straw for their
beds. Whereas the Colonel managed to secure a large roomy old coach or
chariot, which had once belonged to some well-to-do person, probably
a nobleman since decapitated. With relays of horses, even though the
horses in question were sorry beasts, they made fairly quick advance.



CHAPTER XIII

A FRENCH CONSCRIPT

DENHAM IVOR was a man considerably better educated and better read than
the average young officer of his day, a matter for congratulation in
respect of Roy's present education; and also his intellectual gifts
were well above the average level.

The main force of the man lay, however, rather in the direction of
character than of pure intellect. There was about him a soldierly
directness and simplicity, together with a whole-heartedness which
often belongs to that type of nature. Whatever might befall, he would
do his duty, not only with no thought of consequences to himself, but
in the most direct and thorough mode possible.

He was a good man as well as a gallant soldier. He was one who might
say little, but who would at all costs do what he believed to be right.
He was honourable, true, pure-minded, chivalrous towards women, tender
towards little children, reverent and faithful towards his God. He was
indomitable in courage when he faced a foe; but so soon as fighting
ceased, he would be the first to succour a wounded enemy.

All this means largely, as has been earlier stated, that Denham Ivor
had taken shape under the influence and the example of John Moore. Ivor
was the pupil; Moore was the master.

The prolonged banishment from England and captivity in France could not
fail to be to him a terrible trial; not only because he was cut off
indefinitely from the girl whom he loved with whole-hearted devotion;
but because too he was cut off, in his full vigour, from every hope
of promotion and honour, and from serving under the Commander whom he
loved with a devotion no less whole-hearted.

Yet he seldom spoke to any one about the greatness of the trouble. It
seemed as if his spirit of soldierly obedience had taught him also the
secret of submission to the Divine Will.

It is easy to see that a friendship of this kind could not fail to
be good for Roy. And the friendship was not such in name only, since
advantages existed on both sides. Much as Ivor could do for the lad,
in the way of teaching him and keeping him out of mischief, there was
another side to the question. Roy, by his light-heartedness and his
spirit of unconquerable fun, could and did do much to lighten the
weight of the young Guardsman's wearisome captivity.

The journey from Fontainebleau to Verdun, of one hundred and seventy
miles or more, would be nothing much in these days of steam-power, but
it was a considerable matter in those times of slow travelling. It
seemed to weigh upon Ivor's spirits more than anything had yet weighed
upon them; or Denham was less successful in hiding what he felt. Mrs.
Baron was brighter than for months past. Her relief at not being forced
to leave her husband, or to part yet with Roy, tended to cheerfulness;
and Colonel Baron, glad to see her happy, was the same himself. Roy,
as usual, was in good spirits. Ivor alone appeared to have parted with
his elasticity. He did not give in to the mood of depression; but it
was patent enough to Mrs. Baron, whose concerned gaze wandered often
towards him.

No one except Ivor himself could know the haunting vision of Polly
Keene, which floated before his eyes through all those miles of
driving, driving, ever further away from where he craved to be. He
might reply readily to Roy's chatter; but so soon as silence recurred,
up again would come that picture of Polly, with her soft velvet eyes,
her delicate colouring, her arch smile. And then he would hear the
tender yielding in her voice, as she confessed that she did like
Captain Ivor—well, just a little!—and that she might perhaps be willing
to marry him—well, some day!

Out of this Denham would awake to the dreary flat of the surrounding
country, in its wintry colouring; and the wonder would suggest itself,
how many years might not creep slowly by before that could ever be.
He might even grow old and grey in this miserable banishment, before
he should see Polly again. Why not? In those times wars had been wont
to last in one unbroken stretch for such periods as seven years, ten
years, twenty years, thirty years.

Would Polly be content to wait for him?

This question took him by surprise one day, with nothing especial to
call it forth. Ivor had not before so much as thought of the reverse
possibility. The idea that she might not be willing to wait came
freshly; but having once come it did not soon depart.

He never afterwards lost the impression of that moment. The scene
around was deeply stamped upon his mind, in connection with the one
thought.

They had just reached the end of a stage, and were entering a small
town, where fresh horses would be waiting. Ivor was listening to Roy,
responding in a half-absent fashion, and gazing down the street, when,
without warning, that query burst upon him.

Would Polly indeed be willing to wait? Did she care enough? She was
very young; hardly more than a child. If he were to be years away from
her, the two never meeting, letters seldom passing between them, could
he expect—would it even be fair and reasonable to expect—that he should
remain enshrined in her heart, as surely as she would remain enshrined
in his? Polly had known him intimately but a few weeks, though their
acquaintance extended further back; and impressions made upon the mind
and imagination at seventeen are not always lasting. Moreover, Polly
was exceedingly pretty, quite unusually charming. Other men would wish
to marry her. Could he expect such constancy on her part as that she
should wait for her absent lover, refusing every other chance that
might present itself? What would her grandmother think and say? Polly,
with all her charms, was a portionless maiden.

The whole question rolled itself out before Denham's mental gaze, as
they drove along the chief street of the place, exciting less attention
than usual. With his bodily eyes he saw little, yet in a manner he was
aware that a considerable stir prevailed, and he heard, almost without
hearing, Roy's rapid questions.

"I don't at all know," he replied mechanically, as they came to a halt
before the inn.

"Den—look—what a lot of people outside the maison de ville! And some of
them seem so miserable. What are they after?"

"I have not the least idea. Something seems to be wrong. Easy to find
out."

The mystery was soon explained. This happened to be a day appointed
for drawing for the conscription; and around the door of the little
town-hall opposite were gathered the near relatives of the young
fellows who were eligible. There was no mistaking the dread written
upon their faces.

One woman in particular drew notice. She was bent and old in
appearance, though very likely not beyond middle age; she had grey
hair; and she wore a short very full skirt, with a long-waisted bodice,
and big brass buckles on her shoes. From under the wide-brimmed hat her
face waited, with a consuming eagerness, for news, the lips working,
the eyes staring.

"I wonder if she's got a son. I hope, if she has, he won't be taken,"
exclaimed Roy. "What are they doing inside."

"Drawing lots, to see who must go to the wars. All the young men in the
neighbourhood, of a certain age, have been called together, probably;
and those who are passed by surgeons as whole and healthy have to draw
lots. Some will escape, and some will have to go."

"Look—they are coming out. And something is being said—what is it?"

"Hush—the names of those who are drawn."

All listened intently; and the elderly woman, clasping her worn hands,
leaned forward, with a face of concentrated suspense.

"Jean Paulet," sounded clearly.

A bitter wailing cry burst from her, drowning what followed. She held
out wild appealing arms. "Mon fils! Mon fils!" she gasped, and dropped
senseless to the ground.

"Can nothing be done?" exclaimed Mrs. Baron in distress. "The poor
creature! George, will they not let him off? Surely they need not be so
cruel as to take him away!"

"I am afraid the only chance would be a substitute—and not much hope of
that."

"Do ask. Find out something. Do, please."

Denham crossed the road with his rapid stride, followed closely by his
inevitable shadow, Roy, while the Colonel came after in more leisurely
style. The poor woman's friends were attending to her; and Ivor, always
the Colonel's spokesman in a foreign language, made inquiries of a
respectable man, probably a small shopkeeper, standing by. The man
shrugged his shoulders as he replied. "It had to be," he said, not
unkindly, but resignedly. All young men equally were subject to the
conscription, and he who "fell" had to go. There was no escape, no
remedy. None, except through the purchase of a substitute; and Marie
Paulet, he feared, could not manage that. She was a good woman, truly
estimable, and he was sorry for her, yes, sincerely sorry; but what was
to be done? The First Consul required soldiers, and, in fact, he would
have them! Another expressive shrug.

How much would be required for a substitute? Eh Bien—one hundred
livres would doubtless suffice. Madame Paulet, foreseeing this day,
had toiled hard and saved assiduously during many years; but with her
utmost exertions, as he knew, for she had told him, she had managed to
get together only fifty-five livres. No substitute could be obtained
for only fifty-five livres. No, no, impossible! Jean would have to go,
and his mother would grow used to it, like other mothers. How soon?
Sans doute he would be marched away at once—immediately—to the nearest
dépôt, there to be exercised. The thing had to be. There was no remedy.
All France was giving up her best men, by tens of thousands, to feed
the army. In parts already none but women and old men remained to till
the soil.

"Was Madame Paulet a widow?" asked Denham.

"Oui, oui, oui, oui," the man said, fast as the words could come.
Certainly she was a widow; but then she was not over sixty, nor was
Jean her only son. Had she been over sixty, and depending for her
subsistence upon an only son, then vraiment her case would have been
easily pleaded. Marie Paulet was under fifty in age, though she looked
more, since she had toiled hard and had known much sorrow. She had a
second son too, young and somewhat lame, but able to work, though in
truth more of a burden than an assistance. Jean, however, would have to
go. This was a supplementary conscription for the year, more men being
urgently required by the First Consul.

Jean Paulet stood with a face of sullen despair beside his mother,
saying not a word. He was scarcely over nineteen, only one fortnight
past the day, Ivor's informant remarked; and he looked young, being
loose-limbed and shambling, though broad-shouldered.

"Ask them how much they could make up among themselves towards the
purchase of a substitute. Some may be willing to help," suggested the
Colonel.

Denham obeyed, and a discussion took place in raised voices. The two
Englishmen waited gravely, Mrs. Baron watching from the coach, while
Roy stood close by, scanning the conscript with interested gaze. Marie
Paulet sat upon the cold ground, weeping bitterly.

"About fifteen livres seems to be all, sir. They are poor here. It is
a marvel how the woman has managed to save so much. But I am ready to
give fifteen livres."

Colonel Baron's eyebrows stirred. "Well, tell them that, if they can
find a substitute for one hundred livres, you will give fifteen, and I
will do the same. For my part, I doubt if a substitute can be procured,
the drain on the country has been so severe of late. But it will soften
matters a little to the poor woman. I rather grudge letting the money
go into French pockets—but I'd defy any one with proper sensibilities
to stand out against that poor creature's misery."

Denham explained what "Monsieur le Colonel Anglais" had said, failing
to make clear his own share in the matter, though from no lack of power
to express himself. The scene that followed was eminently French in
its abandon of joy. One of the young men present who was eligible but
who had not been drawn—had not tombé, as the saying was—came forward,
and offered for the sum of one hundred livres to go as the substitute
for Jean Paulet. This settled matters; and without hesitation Colonel
Baron produced notes for the amount he had named, Denham adding his own
donation with a rapid movement, which drew no attention.

Thereupon enthusiasm rose to its height. The people of the town, with
whom Marie and her son were plainly favourites, shouted their approval;
while Marie crept close to Colonel Baron, knelt at his feet, sobbed
out her wordless rapture, and even kissed his hands, to the Colonel's
discomfiture.

"I say, Den, I'm going back to the carriage. Say whatever you choose to
them. It's all right, but I vow this sort of thing doesn't quite suit
a Britisher. And it strikes me you haven't made 'em understand that
you're doing as much as I am. Tell 'em that, and talk as much as you
think necessary, and then come along."

A murmur in French from Roy to Jean Paulet gave the further
explanation, which would not have been forthcoming from Denham; and he
had to submit to some of the vehement demonstrations from which the
Colonel had basely fled. Denham endured them with a certain reticent
indifference of manner, which did not mean true indifference. A
slightly quizzical smile stirred his lips, but the dark eyes bent upon
poor old Mme. Paulet were infinitely kind.

Then he too made a move towards the coach; and Roy, lingering one
moment more, held out a hand to Jean, who seemed half stunned with his
unexpected escape.

"Bonjour, Monsieur," the boy said frankly. "I'm glad you are not going
to fight against the English just yet."

Jean muttered broken words—something of a faltering hope and prayer
that a day might come when he should have it in his power, perhaps—who
could tell?—to do some benefit for Monsieur le Colonel, or for Monsieur
le Colonel's friend.

It seemed very unlikely—most unlikely—that he and these passing English
prisoners should ever meet again, still more that he should be able to
do aught for them. Yet most improbable events do take place in this
world of ours. Roy had not that day seen the last of Jean Paulet.

As the coach started, in the midst of grateful acclamations, Marie
Paulet held up mute hands, tears streaming down her faded cheeks. Such
a look was hers, that even Colonel Baron was conscious of moisture in
his eyes, though by no means easily moved to outward emotion. Mrs.
Baron was weeping outright, with the thought of what such a parting
would be between Roy and herself. As for Denham, nobody managed to get
a clear sight of his face for a quarter of a minute.

Once more they were rolling along the interminable roads, Roy wondering
whether Jean Paulet would be drawn at some future time; while Denham's
mind, like a spring released, went back to the one engrossing question,
which for a space had been thrust into the background. Would Polly
indeed wait for him? Or would she grow tired of waiting, forget his
love, and become the wife of another?

That possibility held him in thrall both day and night, through the
rest of this wearisome journey.



CHAPTER XIV

IN A FORTIFIED TOWN

IT was growing dark when at length they drove through the gates into
Verdun.

No one then said a needless word, not even Roy. The sense of banishment
and of captivity pressed upon them all with a new force at the sight of
this fortified town, with its massive encircling walls, its iron gates,
its pervading gendarmerie. If any lack of realisation of their true
position had helped them hitherto, it had small chance of surviving
this hour.

At the gate they had to pause, a gendarme coming to the coach-door. He
said something to Denham, which made Colonel Baron ask sharply, "Eh?
What's that?"

"We are to go first to the citadel. Not necessary for Mrs. Baron and
Roy. You and I might walk it, sir, and send them on."

"No, no," Mrs. Baron interposed. "I cannot go alone. We will keep
together."

On reaching the citadel Mrs. Baron and Roy were desired by the
Colonel to remain in the coach, while he and Denham disappeared, to
be carefully examined and closely questioned, and again to give their
parole, after which they came out, the Colonel saying shortly, "That
business is done! Tell them where to go, Den. They seem determined to
know us again."

"Were they civil?" his wife asked.

"No end of a fuss, my dear. As if the word of an English gentleman were
not sufficient! Close description of us both written in the register."

Once more they drove on, Roy gazing from side to side, noting the small
insignificant shops, and exclaiming at occasional peeps of the river,
with an interest which never failed him. The others were silent, and
saw less. Mrs. Baron's eyes were dim; the Colonel was preoccupied; and
Ivor, usually the most observant of men, seemed to notice nothing.

Presently they stopped before the gateway of a large old house or small
private hotel, with an untidy courtyard. An old Frenchman, in quaint
dress, grey-haired, with an imposing pigtail, came to meet them, bowing
profoundly to the gentlemen, and still more profoundly to Mrs. Baron.

"C'est, sans doute, Monsieur le Colonel—et Madame."

Colonel Baron's particular gift did not lie in foreign languages. He
never could talk French, and he never would, no matter how many years
he might live in France.

"Oui, Monsieur. Bonjour. C'est nous qui sont viendrai," he responded,
feeling it incumbent on him to say something, as he descended from
the old coach. "J'espère que vous ètes bien. Je suis bien aise que
nous sommes haut—pas bas—pas près de le rivière. Denham, you can do it
better than I. Just say what's suitable."

Denham obeyed, and the next sight which dawned upon them was the gentle
face of Lucille de St. Roques. The Colonel and his wife gratefully
expressed their thanks for her past kindness to their boy, as she led
the way upstairs to the first floor. There stood Mme. Courant, a fat
and smiling little Frenchwoman, ready to bestow unlimited welcomes upon
the unfortunate foreigners.

Lucille exchanged bows with Ivor, and then she had a few words with
him, scanning his face with troubled glances. The rooms had to be
inspected, and they were found to be not bad as to size, though
meagrely furnished. Lucille had evidently worked hard, trying to make
things wear as far as possible an English look. If her efforts were
less successful than she wished, nobody betrayed the fact.

"But it has been no trouble—not at all," she assured them, when they
apologised.

While anxious to help, and full of sympathy for their position, she
plainly feared to be guilty of intrusion, and soon she took herself off
with Mme. Courant to the ground floor. A clumsy but well-intentioned
maiden had been deputed to wait upon the upstairs party, probably
had been hired for the purpose, since Mme. Courant, an excellent
bourgeoise, did most of her own house-work.

Dinner was laid in the smaller salon, in readiness for their arrival;
and on the whole that first meal might be called a success. Mme.
Courant was no mean cook; and though not much could be said as to
the waiting from an English point of view, that was a minor matter,
compared with the comfort of clean and cosy quarters, not to speak of
the kind reception.

When, however, dinner was at an end, and they had moved into the larger
salon, when a long evening lay before them, and there was nothing that
had to be done, beyond some amount of unpacking which no one cared
to begin at once,—then a change came. Then the black shadow of their
captivity descended upon them all, even upon the valiant Roy; and for
once the spirit of cheerfulness vanished.

For a quarter of an hour they kept together, nobody speaking. No one
was able to speak. They had nothing to say.

Presently Mrs. Baron made a move, retreating into her own bedroom; and
her husband followed her. Denham had flagged completely, taking refuge
in a shady corner of the big fireplace, where he could scarcely be
seen; and for Den to flag meant the flagging of everybody. As for Roy,
but that he would have been ashamed, he could at this stage have flung
himself on the ground, and have cried like a little child for very
home-sickness.

He wanted Molly,—oh, most awfully! He wanted her this evening more
than he had ever wanted anybody or anything in his life. The craving
that took possession of him for Molly's face, Molly's voice, Molly's
companionship, the passionate desire to have dear little Molly once
more by his side, was a pain never to be forgotten.

Roy did not know how to bear himself under it. He had nothing to do,
nothing with which to pass the time. He stood at the window, trying
desperately to be cool and stoical as the minutes lagged past. Denham
never moved, never spoke a word. Roy could make out his dark outline,
as motionless as a carved image, a few yards distant. If only Denham
would have talked, if something would have happened, to keep going
would have been easier.

Presently Denham did speak. "Come here," he said.

Roy obeyed rather unwillingly.

"Feel very bad this evening, Roy?"

The question took Roy by surprise, and Denham understood his silence.
"Never mind," he said. "It's the same with all of us, you know. And
there is one comfort for you, that Molly wants you at least as much as
you want her. Some people would give a good deal for a like certainty."

Roy tried to explain matters away. "I didn't say—"

"No, I know. Never mind, my boy. Things will mend by and by."

Denham's chair shook as Roy leant against it. He fought his little
battle, and Denham waited, racking his brain to think of some
occupation for the boy.

"We shall all feel better to-morrow," came presently. "Things cannot
look comfortable at first in a strange place. Roy, I wish you would
unpack my valise for me—just the things I shall want to-night. It would
be a help."

"May I really? Den, aren't you well?"

"Rather done. Yes, I wish you would."

Roy was delighted, and went off at full speed. Outside the door he all
but rushed into Lucille's arms. She drew back, and held up something.

"A letter from England, Roy!"

"O I say, that's good. Who for? Den! I'm glad. He's just floored
to-night."

"And this is medicine for Monsieur."

Roy flung open the salon door, announcing, "A letter A letter for you,
Den. From England."

"From the post?" asked Denham, receiving from her hand a folded and
sealed packet.

"Non, Monsieur. It arrives from M. de Bertrand. It was sent to him from
England—under cover—and he waited till he should learn your address.
Then he sent it to me by one travelling this way. I am glad," she
softly added.

Denham bent nearer to the candle, trying with drawn brows and aching
eyes to make out the handwriting. As he did so, a curious light crept
into his face.

"You are very good, Mademoiselle. I am much indebted to you and to M.
de Bertrand."

"Den, I do believe 'tis Polly's writing," cried Roy.

Denham glanced towards him.

"Yes. It is from Polly."



CHAPTER XV

FROM OVER THE WATER

LUCILLE, turning to go, made a little sign to Roy to follow her. Ivor
opened the door, moving mechanically, as if his mind were far-away; and
Roy, with a show of reluctance, went in her rear.

"But, Mademoiselle, I want to know about them all at home. Molly most!
And Den can tell me."

"Yes; soon. But would you not leave Monsieur to read his letter in
peace? Would not that be kind?"

"Are you more sorry for Den than for the rest of us?" demanded Roy,
his frank grey eyes looking Lucille in the face somewhat laughingly.
The question took her by surprise; and afterwards she recurred to it,
wondering at the boy's unconscious penetration. At the moment she met
his glance readily enough.

"I do not know. I am sorry for you all. But Captain Ivor—yes, perhaps
most. He is more changed by his imprisonment than any. Cannot you
perceive? Mais non—you are a boy—you do not look."

"I do, though," protested the injured Roy. "But I can't see that Den is
changed—not a scrap. What do you mean? He's the best old fellow that
ever lived—just as he always was, you know."

"Old!" repeated Lucille, with a lifting of her eyebrows.

"O that's only—that means nothing. At least, it means that I like him
better than anybody else—except Molly. No, he isn't old really, of
course,—he was twenty-five last birthday." Roy laughed to himself.

"Something that you find amusing, Roy!"

"It's only the letter. Do you know, that's from the girl he is going to
marry some day. It's from Polly."

"Oui—" Lucille had already conjectured as much. "Mademoiselle Pol-ly!
C'est un peu drole, ce nom-là."

"But 'tis not Mademoiselle Po-lee. 'Tis just Polly. You do say names so
drolly—so French! Den says I'm not to cure you of talking as you do,
because 'tis pretty. But her name really and truly isn't Polly. She is
Mary Keene—only no one ever calls her Mary."

"Mademoiselle Marie Keene,—ah, oui. And is this Mademoiselle Keene
pretty—gentille?"

"I should just think she was. The prettiest girl that ever was,"
declared Roy. "Though I like Molly best, you know, and she's not
pretty. But Polly's nice too. May I go back now? Den has had lots of
time."

"I would wait—ten minutes—why not? You have not yet unpacked for
Monsieur."

Roy murmured one impatient "Bother!" and then his face cleared, and he
complied. Ivor did not know how much he owed to Lucille, in being thus
left to the undisturbed enjoyment of his letter.

He forgot all about both Lucille and Roy, when once he had it. The very
touch of that thick paper, with its red seals, did him good. As he
unfolded it, the weight on his brain lessened, and sight became more
clear.

There was one sheet, square-shaped, written well over. Polly's letter
came first, and another from somebody else followed it. Ivor did not
trouble himself as to the authorship of the second, till he had read
through the first. He scarcely vouchsafed it a glance.

The early part of Polly's effusion, which bore a date many weeks old,
was written in a strain of studied archness and badinage, such as in
those days was greatly affected by young ladies. Towards the end a
little peep into Polly's heart was permitted. She had apparently just
received one of Ivor's many epistles, the greater number of which never
reached their destination.


                                             "Bath, November 7, 1803."

   "MY DEAR CAPTAIN IVOR,—So you consider that I have been too slow in
writing to you, and you make complaint that I leave you too long
without letters. But how know you that I have not sent at least one for
every single one of yours to me? In truth, I cannot boast of any vast
Correspondence on your side, my dear Sir, since the letter which is
now arriv'd is but the second in—O in quite an interminable length of
time. And were it not that I have an exceeding Aversion to the writing
of Letters, as indeed you ought to be aware, since I am sure I have
told you as much, I might feel regrets at hearing so seldom—but that
it means the less toil on my part, you understand. If it were not that
in your last you give a delicate hint that Silence on my part might be
construed to mean something of the Nature of Indifference, why, even
now, I should be greatly disposed to indulge my Dislike to driving the
Quill, and wait till another day."

   "But since doubtless you will expect to hear, and since we never
may know which letters have gone astray, I will so far overcome my
inclinations—or my disinclinations—as to sit down and endeavour to
entertain you with the best of the Bath News."

   "My letter which was writ from Sandgate you have I trust already
received, and thus you know all about the scare which took place, when
the French Fleet was descried by somebody of not very good sight—or
so I suppose!—and when signals went wrong, and the Soldiers and
Sea-Fencibles and Volunteers were all called out, and when General
Moore galloped the whole distance from Dungeness Point to be in time,
and when Mrs. Bryce's heart failed her. But not Polly's, Captain
Ivor—of that you may be sure! For Polly is to be one day the wife of a
soldier! And also Polly knew that, if she were to be taken prisoner, as
Mrs. Bryce dolefully foretold, why—why—that might mean that she could
hope to be sent to where Somebody is, whom sloe would not be greatly
sorry to see once again."

   "Mrs. Bryce insisted on coming hither in hot haste, lest Napoleon
should please to land at Sandgate, where General Moore waited to
receive him; and now she is in doubt what to do next, since some think
London is the safer place to be in. But General Moore does not now
think that Napoleon will make any effort till spring, since any day
winter storms in the Channel may begin; and Jack scorns the notion
that, when he does come, he will ever advance beyond the sea-beach.
'Tis said that, if Mr. Pitt comes into power again, he will speedily
start some new ideas for our Preservation; and my Grandmamma says,
therefore, that we may not start any new expenses till we know to what
length Taxation will allow us to run. But for which I wanted much a new
frock."

   "Last week I was in Bristol for three days, with my Grandmother's old
friends, Mr. and Mrs. Graham. I was invited to a Dance with them, and
I went, but without the smallest idea of dancing, having been assured
that beaux were scarce, and strangers seldom asked. So I determined to
enjoy seeing others more fortunate, and to pass a quiet stupid evening,
meditating on an absent Somebody—can you by any possibility guess Whom,
my Dear Sir?"

   "But matters turned out otherwise. I had entered the room only a few
minutes, when a most genteel handsome young Man advanced, and with
such sort of speeches as you all make solicited the honour of my hand.
To tell you the honest and plain truth, I had seen him before, and
I therefore graciously assented. I left the ladies that accompanied
me—Mrs. Graham and Mrs. Graham's sister—to look out for themselves;
and I began thereupon to enjoy myself. Now, if you want to know his
name, you must wait till I choose to tell you. He contributed to my
passing a very agreeable evening; and so far I am obliged to him; for
he knew many who were present, and he took good care that I should be
in no lack of partners; but whether I ever see him again does not seem
to be of any sort of consequence. Every one was astonished at my great
good luck in dancing; for the Gentlemen were, as usual, idle. There
were some sad Coxcombs present, I regret to say, who found it too much
exertion even to come forward and shawl a lady when she was departing.
But I forget—I am writing to one who knows not the meaning of the
word 'trouble,' and who would never leave any woman, not if she were
the least Bewitching of her Sex, to stand neglected, if he could put
matters right. So you see, my dear Sir, what my opinion of you is."

   "Having related thus much, I really am bound to go further, and to
inform you that the young man's name was Albert Peirce, that he is a
nephew of the good Admiral, that he is an officer in His Majesty's
Army, and that I saw him at Sandgate, the evening before our great
scare about the Invasion. After all his civilities in the way of
getting me Partners, he also handed me down to the vastly elegant
Supper, which was provided; and by that time, there's no doubt, I
needed it."

   "You may perhaps be thinking that I do very well without you, on the
whole; yet I cannot say that I do not miss my absent friend. Indeed I
do, and my Spirits are lower since you went away. 'Tis said too that
my Roses are much diminished, and that I must e'en take to the use
of Painting and Cosmetics, if I would preserve my Charms; but this,
I confess, I am loath to do. So come home, my dear Denham, I entreat
of you, as soon as ever you may, for in truth I am longing to see you
again. Is there no Exchange of Prisoners ever to be brought about by
the two Governments? The present state of things is sad and dolorous
for so many. I think of sending this letter to your old address in
Paris, in a cover addressed to M. de Bertrand, who so kindly took in
Roy when he had the smallpox. It appears that few letters which are
posted arrive safely; and 'tis at least worth while to try this mode.
And now I must write no more, for my Grandmother craves a part of
the sheet for a letter on her own behalf, that she may give suitable
particulars about Molly, who begs me to send her Duty to her parents,
and her Love to Roy. I have entreated only that the Letter may be writ
to yourself, that so the whole sheet may be yours. So at present no
more, from—"

   "Yours faithfully and Till Death,           POLLY KEENE."

Denham held the signature to his lips. Would he ever again be tempted
to doubt sweet Polly's constancy?

The letter following, on the last page, was shorter and different in
style. Mrs. Fairbank wrote:

   "MY DEAR CAPTAIN IVOR,—I am desirous to let Colonel Baron and his
wife know that Molly is in good health, and behaves herself as she ought.
I have therefore requested the use of one page in Polly's letter, since
she assures me that she has nought to say that is of great Importance.
You will doubtless kindly give my message to Colonel and Mrs. Baron."

   "I am greatly indebted to Colonel Baron for the money which has been
sent to me by his Bankers regularly, in conformity with his orders
given many months ago. Expenses are increasingly heavy, as Prices
continue steadily to arise, in consequence of the long-continued Wars;
and I shou'd find it truly difficult to manage, as things are now, but
for his seasonable and generous help. I am thankful to have it in my
power to do all that is needed for Molly, and the help to myself is not
small. Bread and every necessary are rising."

   "Molly has a Governess who comes in every day; and I am pleased to be
able to report that she makes good advance in her Study's, as much as
one cou'd expect. The young Governess is of french Extraction, her
father having lost his life in the french Revolution, and her Mother
having fled with this daughter to England. She will therefore be able
to impart to Molly the correct Pronunciation of french terms, which
few Britishers manage to Acquire. Molly is growing fast; and though
she will never be handsome, she is gaining a Pleasing expression of
Countenance; her manners are Genteel; and she behaves with Candour
and Propriety."

   "Serious fears have been Entertain'd of a french Invasion of this
Country, but I trust, thro' the Mercy of God, that the danger is
averted for this autumn. Mr. and Mrs. Bryce have fled to Bath for
greater safety, in accordance with my Advice; and indeed I was heartily
glad when Polly had left Sandgate. If the french Army shou'd land
and shou'd advance to Lonⁿ, God forbid they shou'd molest the good
Citizens, who I hope will be enabled to drive the french by thousands
into old Thames. People seem now, however, greatly to relax their
fears."

   "You will dou'tless be glad to hear that Polly is well though she has
not quite her usual bloom. Indeed, I am convinc'd that she has suffered
greatly from your prolonged absence, although having a high spirit she
does not readily betray her feelings.—Believe me, my dear Sir,—"

   "Yours sincerely,                          C. FAIRBANK."

"Den, is it from Polly?" cried Roy, bursting into the room.

"Yes. And Molly is quite well, and sends you her love. Come, we must
tell your mother that I have heard."

"I've done your unpacking. Mademoiselle kept me away. She said I must
let you read your letter in peace."

"Rather hard upon you, eh?" suggested Ivor. "Come along!" and Roy,
forgetting all else, sent a shout in advance to prepare his mother for
what was coming.

They had to make the most of this letter. None could guess how long a
time might pass before they would hear again. Every detail was eagerly
dwelt upon, and on the whole Polly's report was counted satisfactory.
Naturally it awoke fresh memories, fresh regrets, fresh longings; yet
Denham at least was the better for his "medicine." The look of weight
and strain was gone from his face next morning, and he seemed to be in
much his usual spirits when he proposed a walk with Roy to explore the
neighbourhood. He and the Colonel had just returned from appel, all
détenus and prisoners having at stated intervals to report themselves
at the maison de ville.

"Will you have to sign your names every day?" Mrs. Baron asked, on
hearing what they had done.

"At present, no. Den and I and a few others are excused from doing
so more often than once in five days. But the greater number have to
show themselves every day—unless they can send a medical certificate,
forbidding them to go out on account of illness."

"Remedy worse than disease," murmured Ivor.

"And if one stays away, without sending such a certificate, the
gendarmes promptly make their appearance, expecting a fee for the
trouble."

"How much?"

"Three francs,—so I am told."

"What a shame!"

"General Roussel does not seem to be a bad sort of fellow. Civil
enough. But they mean to be strict."

"Good many escapes of late, sir."

"Why, Den—escapes when they've given their parole!" cried Roy.

"No; only when they have not given their parole. That makes all the
difference."

"And may you go wherever you like?"

"Within stiff limits. Five miles from the town—no more without leave."

"I foresee that we shall have to pay pretty liberally for that leave,"
added the Colonel.



CHAPTER XVI

ORDERED TO VALENCIENNES

"DEN, I say—do come along," urged Roy.

"All right, if you don't mind paying a call."

Roy was ready for anything, and they went first toward the lower part
of the town, on a level with the river. Roy, full as usual of talk,
poured out items of information which he had gathered from Mademoiselle
de St. Roques.

"She says Verdun is an awfully old place—goes back to almost the
time of Charlemagne. Let's go on the ramparts. Don't they look like
boulevards, with those trees? Mademoiselle says the ramparts are three
miles long, all round. Where are we going, Den?"

"I want to look up a Mr. and Mrs. Curtis, a young artist and his wife.
He was pointed out to me at appel. They were at Brussels on their
wedding tour, when the arrest took place, and it seems to be a serious
matter with them. Mr. Kinsland asked me to call."

"Are you going to help the Curtises?"

"That is as may be. I wish to find out how matters are with them. And I
am taking you because, if you can keep Mrs. Curtis's attention engaged,
it will give me a chance of a few words with her husband. You see, Roy,
I'm treating you as my friend." Roy's glance showed full comprehension.

Mr. Curtis proved to be a gentlemanly young fellow, with a keen clever
face, much overshadowed by present care. His wife, hardly more than a
child in age, was kittenlike in small plump prettiness.

"O it is quite dreadful!" she said, fraternising at once with Roy.
Having six brothers of her own, she was much at home with boys in
general. "We were to have gone back the very next week, and everybody
said there could be no need to hurry. And we were so enjoying
ourselves—you know," with a blush. "Then that terrible order came, that
we were to count ourselves prisoners. At least my husband was to be
a prisoner, and, of course, that meant the same for me. And our dear
little house, where we meant to be so happy, has been waiting for us
ever since, empty. And Hugh's studio, and the picture he had in hand,
which was to have been finished this autumn! He," lowering her voice,
and speaking with childish unreserve, "was to have had a hundred pounds
for it. Now everything is at a standstill. But you are in the same
trouble too. I mustn't be selfish, and think only of ourselves."

She stole a glance across at Ivor, who was speaking in an undertone to
her husband.

"It is so good of Captain Ivor to call. Mr. Kinsland, the clergyman,
said he would ask him to come, but we never dreamt of seeing him
so soon. We feel strange here, you know, and it is a help to see
any one come in." Mrs. Curtis dropped her voice afresh. "What a
pleasant-looking man he is; and so soldierly! Mr. Kinsland said he had
never seen a handsomer face, and I don't think I ever did either. It is
such a kind face, too. Mr. Kinsland said you were desperately fond of
him."

Roy laughed. It was not his fashion to talk of being "fond" of people.
"Den's just the best fellow that ever lived!" he declared—his usual
formula. "And I suppose you got here before we did?"

"Only three days ago. We had to come to these rooms. Not very
home-like, are they? but the landlady is nice. And nothing else
would matter much, if only Hugh could get back to his work. It makes
him so depressed not to be able, poor fellow. Men are very soon
depressed—don't you think so?"

Roy said "No" promptly, and then remembered Denham on the preceding
evening, but he did not take back the monosyllable. He exerted himself
to keep her talking, and he also did his utmost not to see or hear,
yet he could not help being aware of a suspicious little movement
of Denham's hand, and then of a startled "No, no! How can I? From a
stranger!"

"We are not strangers. We are brothers in misfortune," Denham answered,
with the smile which always drew people to him. "Call it a loan if you
like. For your wife's sake—" very softly—"do not refuse."

Roy did not hear all this, but he heard more than he was meant to hear.
A move then was made, and Curtis replied huskily to some careless
remark, as the callers took leave.

"Den, I say, I didn't mean to listen, but I couldn't quite help," came
outside as a confession.

"Then your next duty is to forget. Now for the ramparts," Ivor said,
dropping the subject at once. Roy knew better than to put any questions.

When first Verdun was appointed to be a depot for prisoners, the
commandant was a General Roussel, of whom no English prisoner had any
complaint to make. He treated them well and justly, and such hardships
as they had to endure were for the most part not his fault but the
fault of the French Government.

Unhappily, before many months were past General Roussel was sent
elsewhere, and his successor, General Wirion, soon showed himself to
be a man of a totally different stamp. Wirion was a product of the
Revolution, the son of a pork-dealer in Picardy, at first an attorney's
clerk with a shady reputation, then an active terrorist, approved of
by the villain Robespierre. He was, in fact, a low-born and ill-bred
scoundrel, avaricious and grasping, who under Napoleon had risen to be
a general of gendarmerie.

Prolonged captivity, with such a creature in authority, was likely to
become even worse than it had been before; and so, to their cost, the
captives at Verdun speedily found.

All indulgences allowed by the first commandant were removed. Prisoners
and détenus alike, no matter what their grade or position, were
compelled twice a day to report themselves at appel, unless they
preferred by payment to escape the unpleasant necessity. Instead of
being free to walk or drive as far as five miles from the town in any
direction, they now might not leave the gates without payment of six
francs. Incessant douceurs were demanded on every possible pretext; and
oppressions, bribery, and rank injustice became the order of the day.

Again and again numbers of the détenus, on some false excuse, or with
no excuse at all, were closely imprisoned in the citadel, being set
free only on the payment of heavy sums of money. This dread hung over
them all as a perpetual possibility.

Far worse still was the terror of being some day suddenly despatched to
the "black fortress," Bitche, where large numbers of British prisoners
pined in a more grim confinement than at Verdun. The tales of Bitche
dungeons, of Bitche horrors, which from time to time filtered round to
those who lived in Verdun, read now like stories of mediæval days.

Roy was still at Verdun. Every effort to get a passport for him had
failed.

During the autumn of 1805, not many weeks before the Battle of
Trafalgar, a fresh blow fell.

Roy had felt his captivity much, boyishly gay though he was, and rarely
out of spirits. But he had had Denham all through, and Denham, though
commonly regarded as a grave man of dignified demeanour, had been to
Roy the most delightful of companions. From the spring of 1803 to the
autumn of 1805 the two had seldom been apart for a whole day. Denham
had been not only Roy's elder brother, but his friend, his tutor, his
playfellow.

"I don't know, for my part, what Roy would do without you," Colonel
Baron sometimes said gratefully to Ivor. And Ivor would reply, "Roy is
as much to me as I am to him." But though in a sense this was true, it
could not be true in all senses.

September came, and with it a fresh device of the pork-dealer's son.
General Wirion decided to send a large party of the Verdun détenus away
to Valenciennes, a distance of about one hundred and fifty miles. No
reasons were vouchsafed, and the choice made of those who should go was
entirely arbitrary.

On Saturday, September 17th, the order went forth that about forty of
them were to leave on the Monday, only two days later.

Early on Monday morning the first batch started, being seen off at
the gates by a crowd of their English friends; and that afternoon, at
appel, forty more were desired to hold themselves in readiness to start
on the Wednesday following.

The second forty departed; and on Thursday another announcement was
made to a third forty, that they too must prepare to depart on the
Saturday.

Upon some who were concerned the blow fell a few hours earlier.
Although Wirion curtly declined to inform the détenus themselves which
among them would be despatched next, he did take the trouble to send
lists of their names to some leading tradesmen in the town. From those
quarters information might be obtained, though many of the détenus
proudly refused so to seek it.

"Roy, I want a word with you," said Denham, towards the evening of
Wednesday, putting his head into the salon. "Come here."

"Just in a minute. May I get—?"

"Never mind anything else. Come to my room."

Roy obeyed at once.

"Shut the door. I have something to say." Ivor motioned the boy to a
second chair. "I have just seen Curtis."

The tone was unusual. Roy looked hard at Denham.

"Is something the matter?"

"Yes. Wirion!"—significantly.

"Do tell me."

"Mrs. Curtis was so anxious about this Valenciennes business, that she
persuaded her husband to see one of the shop lists."

"I know. Papa said he'd have nothing to do with that way of finding
out."

"No. But Curtis went, and—"

"Are they ordered of? O I'm sorry! Mrs. Curtis is so jolly—like a boy
almost. I shall miss them ever so much. Are they really going? What a
bother!"

"Yes."

"Anybody else?"

"Yes."

Denham's grave eyes met Roy's, with an expression which somehow
sent Roy's heart down and down into his very shoes. The boy sat and
stared—aghast and wordless.

"I want you to know beforehand, not to be taken by surprise. For your
mother's sake you must bear it bravely."

Roy had grown pale, and his gaze spoke of dismay and incredulity.

"But you don't mean—you! Not you!"

"Yes."

"Den!"

"It is not difficult to find a cause. You see, we have held aloof
from Wirion's set, and have declined his invitations. Also, I have
managed to hold back one or two young fellows from those miserable
gaming-tables. No doubt he prefers to have me out of the way for a
while. It may be only for a few weeks. But—"

Roy walked off to the window, and stood with his back to Denham.
Silence lasted fully five minutes. Denham remained where he was,
looking sadly enough towards the boy. He had much to do, but Roy was
his first consideration; and he knew from his own sensations what the
parting would be to the other.

"Come," he said at length. "It can't be helped. And—I don't know what
you feel about it, but I have an objection to letting Wirion see that
he can make us unhappy."

Roy came back slowly.

"That—brute!" he burst out, choking over the word.

"Yes—I know. There's no sort of excuse for him. Roy, I want a promise
from you."

"What?"

"You know the sort of thing that is going on here. Promise me
faithfully that, whatever happens, you will keep clear of the
gaming-tables. You may be tempted, and I shall not be at hand to look
after you."

Roy was silent—perhaps because of those last words. "Promise. I can
depend upon your word."

"I do—promise," Roy said with difficulty.

"And you will do your best to keep up your mother's spirits? You must
be the same plucky fellow with them that you have been all along with
me. Don't make any difference. They will need it now more than ever."

"It's so beastly hard," muttered Roy.

"Yes," and a pause. "There's one thought that's sometimes a comfort to
me. Perhaps it might be to you too. Whatever happens, one may remember
still—that God is over all. Things won't go on for ever like this."

The interview was getting to be too much for both of them. Denham drew
one hand across his forehead. "There!—that will do. No need to say any
more. Now I must go and speak to your father."

      *     *     *     *     *     *     *

Three days later the third company of forty détenus quitted Verdun
for Valenciennes. Roy and Colonel Baron were at the gate, with many
others, in the early morning, to see the detachment off upon their
enforced pilgrimage. Denham had never held his head higher, or looked
more composed, and Roy did his best to imitate his friend. But he found
it hard work. This was not like any ordinary farewell. He and Denham
alike knew themselves to be in the power of an unscrupulous martinet,
behind whom was another equally unscrupulous and quite irresponsible
despot. Neither could conjecture what might become of the other, or
whether they might again meet before the close of the war; and each was
sure that every possible impediment would be thrown in the way of their
communicating by letter.

Roy returned with his father to M. Courant's house, a heavy sense of
blank weighing upon them both. Ivor's was a personality which never
failed to make itself felt, and he had the power of winning affection,
without apparent effort. The difference made in their little circle by
his departure was more than could beforehand have been imagined.

Not in their own little circle only. Many in Verdun knew that they had
lost a valued friend that day; and even downstairs Denham was strangely
missed. Somebody else, beside Roy, shed at night a few quiet tears,
when nobody could see. Lucille herself was perplexed at the acute
consciousness which clung to her of Captain Ivor's absence.

Somehow she had not of late thought a very great deal of that poor
young De Bertrand, whose image once had filled her thoughts. Not that
she forgot him, but other thoughts and other interests had taken
possession of her mind.



CHAPTER XVII

IN THE YEAR 1807

MORE than eighteen months had dragged past since the day when Denham
Ivor had been summarily despatched to Valenciennes.

Once or twice a letter from him had reached the Barons, but it was
now long since the arrival of the last. Whether Denham remained yet
at Valenciennes was a matter of supposition. For aught that his
friends knew to the contrary, he might have been passed on to the grim
fortress, Bitche, to Sédan, or elsewhere.

One day, in the spring of 1807, Roy stood upon the ramparts, gazing
eagerly towards the nearest town gate. At fifteen he was much the same
as he had been at thirteen; not so much taller as might have been
expected, for he had grown but slowly. He looked as boyish as ever,
with the same curly brown hair, honest grey eyes, and impulsive manner.
Not quite so good-looking, perhaps, as in more childish days, but
attractive enough. Few guessed him to be within three or four months of
his sixteenth birthday. He was often taken for only fourteen.

To some extent habit does and must mean use. Four years out of a boy's
life are a goodly slice of time; and Roy had now been nearly four years
a captive. He might, and not seldom did, chafe and fume. Still, he had
good health and unquenchable spirits; and however impatient he was by
fits and starts, no one could have described him as unhappy. He had
the gift of making the best of things, and a certain breezy spirit of
philosophy stood him in good stead. Hard as it had been to find himself
cut off from Molly for an indefinite period, harder still to lose
Denham, he managed to enjoy life, finding entertainment in everything
and everybody.

"I say! Hallo! There's something going on!" he said aloud.

Roy gazed hard, trying to make out the cause of that gathering throng
round about the gate. Some unusual event seemed to be taking place.

Colonel Baron had gone into a neighbouring street on business, telling
Roy that he would meet him again on the ramparts. But as Roy watched,
the pull became too strong. Something certainly was happening. What
if Colonel Baron had forgotten all about him, and had gone in that
direction to discover what was being done?

Roy could endure himself no longer. He descended to the ground, set off
full tilt, and speedily reached the outskirts of the crowd, running
plump against the Rev. Charles Kinsland, who received the onslaught
with a "Hallo, Roy!"

"I beg your pardon, sir. What's up?" demanded Roy breathlessly.

"A party of détenus back from Valenciennes, I believe," the young
clergyman answered. "There was a report this morning in some quarters
that we might expect them, and it seems to be true. Any friends of
yours, I wonder? There they come through the gate."

Both pressed on, but Roy made the quicker advance, edging himself
through the crowd with dexterity. The thought of Ivor had come up like
a flash of lightning. Not that he expected to see Denham himself—the
chance was too remote, the delight would be too supreme—but some news
of him might be obtained. Somebody who had arrived would certainly
have seen him, have talked with him. Roy might keep up his spirits and
enjoy life, despite partings and deprivations; but no one who could
have known how the boy's heart leaped at the very idea of hearing about
Ivor, would ever have accused him of lack of feeling.

He forced his way to a good position near the gate, and scanned face
after face of the returned wanderers. Many were familiar; but it was
one, not many, that Roy wanted; and though he had resolutely assured
himself that he did not expect, keen disappointment laid hold upon him
when Ivor failed to appear.

Greetings between friends parted for eighteen months were passing
warmly, and the buzz of voices was considerable. Suddenly Roy's glance
fell upon a man standing somewhat apart, leaning against the wall. A
little child lay asleep in his arms, and Roy's first impression was of
a stranger who was awfully tired with the march. He actually gazed full
at the face without recognition, so much was it altered—the features
sharpened into a delicate carving in very pale bronze, like a profile
on some rare old coin, and the dark eyes set in hollows. "Poor fellow!
he does look done!" thought Roy, and he went nearer.

"I say, hadn't you better give me that little thing to hold?"

[Illustration: "I say, hadn't you better give me that little thing to
hold?"]

"Why—Roy!"

The voice, too, had a worn-out intonation, but the smile was not to be
mistaken.

"DEN!—you don't mean to say it's you!"

Their hands met in a prolonged grip.

"You've come back! I am glad!"

"Yes. How are you all?"

"Den—I say—what's wrong with you?"

A man came limping up, in appearance a respectable artisan. He took
the child from Ivor's arms. "Sir, no words o' mine can say what me and
mine owe to you," he muttered, not noticing Roy. "But sure, sir, God'll
reward you."

"I shall be at Colonel Baron's. Come and see me some day—tell me how
you're getting on."

"I will, sir—and thank you kindly for everything."

Ivor remained in the same position, and a hand touched Roy. He turned
to find himself facing the young artist, Hugh Curtis.

"You back too! That's good. And your wife?"

"Wife and baby coming. Didn't you know I had a little one? Well, I
have. Jolly little thing too. They're in a cart with others—thanks to
Captain Ivor—" in a lower tone. "Never mind about us. Get him home—"
with a glance towards Denham. "I've got to find rooms for ourselves,
after I've been to the citadel. Must report myself there first. And
then I shall have to meet my wife."

Roy moved two or three paces away with him.

"I say, tell me—what's been the matter with him? He just looks as if—"

"Hasn't been well for some time, and he was ill a few weeks ago. He has
walked the whole way here from Valenciennes. Got a horse for himself,
and at the last gave it up to young Carey—a poor consumptive young
fellow. Said Carey needed it most. Just like him, you know. And then,
carrying that child for hours yesterday and to-day!"

"What for?"

"Child's father hurt his foot, and could barely get along. And the
little thing cried with everybody except Ivor. You know his way with
children. But he's about used up now. Get him home, and make him rest."

Curtis went on, and Roy touched Denham's arm.

"I'll get a fiacre to drive you up the hill. Stay where you are till I
come back."

He rushed away, and happily was successful in his search. Ivor had
taken his seat, when Major Woodgate walked briskly up.

"Roy—got Ivor? That's right," he said in his quick fashion. "Don't
bring him to the citadel. I'll go and answer for him—and fee the
gendarmes, if needful. Just met Curtis and heard what's been going on.
Done the hundred and fifty miles on foot, I'm told—and ill to begin
with. A piece of Quixotism! I shall come and give you a piece of my
mind, Ivor, another day."

Denham laughed slightly, but made no effort to defend himself, and they
drove off—Roy watching his friend with a rapt gaze.

"Den, what was it for? Why couldn't you ride?"

"I did intend. Somebody else was in more need."

"Couldn't you have had a second horse?"

"No—" with a smile. "The order took every one by surprise. Most of us
were short of cash."

Roy thought of what Curtis had said. "And I suppose you gave what you
had to everybody else, and kept none for yourself."

"I shared with others—of course—"

"What is the reason for your all being sent back now?"

"I don't know."

Ivor seemed incapable of starting remarks himself; and Roy, realising
his condition, sank into silence, unable to take his eyes from that
worn face. They reached the house, and he sprang down.

"Shall I go and tell them?"

"No need. I'll come. Can you pay the driver? I'm cleared out
completely."

In the salon upstairs were Colonel and Mrs. Baron, and with them was
Lucille, as often now was her custom. She had gradually become almost a
member of the Baron family, and they were extremely fond of her. When
Roy flung the door open, and marched triumphantly in, his arm through
Ivor's, one startled "Ah-h!" broke from her, before the other two had
grasped what was happening; and then her face, usually almost without
colour, became crimson. Her eyes shone, the lips remaining apart.

"Denham!" the Colonel and his wife exclaimed.

Colonel Baron's grasp of Ivor's hand and his fixed gaze were like those
of Roy. Mrs. Baron's delight was even more plainly expressed.

"This is joy! O this is joy!" she said. "Nothing else could be so great
a happiness—except going home. Welcome, welcome!" Then she held his
hand, with eyes full of tears searching his face. "But, my dear Denham,
you have been ill—surely you have been ill. How thin!—how altered! What
have you been doing to yourself?"

"He has walked the whole way here from Valenciennes," cried Roy, before
Denham could speak. "He was to have ridden, and he gave up the horse to
somebody else."

"Was that necessary?" the Colonel asked.

"I thought it so, sir. Any letters from home?"

"One from Mrs. Fairbank a few weeks since. That is all. Good accounts
of Polly and Molly. Have you not heard from them?"

"Not since leaving Verdun."

"They may not have heard of your going to Valenciennes. Did you see a
statement in the 'Moniteur,' not long since, as to correspondence with
England? To the effect that more than a hundred thousand letters had
been taken possession of by the French Government,—and bills to the
value of millions of pounds sterling."

"No wonder we détenus are not flush of cash! No, I did not see it. That
may have been when I was ill."

"You have been ill, then?"

"Yes,—nothing to signify. How did Mrs. Fairbank's letter reach you.
Post?"

"Through M. de Marchand,—under cover to him. We have advised her
repeatedly to try again that mode, since it seems the most hopeful. But
doubtless our letters don't reach them."

Lucille, after exchanging a warm English handshake with Denham, had
held back, waiting her opportunity to slip away. She glided now towards
the door, unseen by Ivor, who was gazing thoughtfully on the ground.
Roy ran to open it, and she said softly as she went out, "Do not be
merciless to your friend. Give him some little repose. He is what you
call 'dead-beat.'"

Roy nodded. "You always did seem to see exactly how Den was, didn't
you?"

Lucille made her escape promptly, with heightening colour, and Ivor
asked, "Where is the letter?"

"Roy has put it away," said Mrs. Baron. "It is partly to Roy and partly
to my husband. But you need food and sleep before anything else."

"Nay, if you knew how we have travelled and slept at night, you would
allow the more pressing need to be for a bath and change of clothing,"
Ivor said, rather drily. "Well, since you can assure me that 'tis all
good news, I will wait one half-hour."

"And then I'll read it to you," suggested Roy. "It isn't so very
interesting. More than half is from my grandmother to my father; and
you know how she writes always of the things which nobody wishes
to hear. And the rest is from Molly to me. But as for Polly, my
grandmother does not say much—does she?" —with a look at Mrs. Baron—
"Save only that Polly is well."



CHAPTER XVIII

ALTERED LOOKS

THE letter from Mrs. Fairbank to Colonel Baron, which Roy undertook to
read aloud to Denham, though somewhat verbose, was not without passages
of interest.

During the last four years, since the Barons had left their own country
for an enforced residence abroad, much had happened in European
history. Most notable among famous events had been the Battle of
Trafalgar in 1805, which crippled for half a century to come the Naval
power of France.

For three years at least previous to that date, England had been kept
on tenter-hooks of expectation, incessantly dreading a French invasion.
Napoleon had talked largely of such an invasion, and had openly made
preparations for it, on no mean scale. England also had made ready for
it, had feared it, had laughed at it. And at the last, partly through
Continental complications, causing Napoleon to withdraw most of the
great military force which had long sat at Boulogne, waiting for a safe
chance of crossing the Channel, but much more through the magnificent
and crushing victory of Nelson, in the course of which he received his
death-wound, England escaped it.

She escaped it by a narrow margin. But for Napoleon's pressing need of
more soldiers elsewhere, and but for this crowning victory of Nelson's,
the attempt might have been made. As everybody knows, Nelson chased the
combined fleets of France and Spain across the Atlantic to the West
Indies and back again. And had he, by one little slip, missed finding
those fleets at the critical moment, a landing of French troops might
actually have taken place.

Whether Napoleon could have done more than land his troops upon the
coast is a question difficult now to answer. That he could ever have
conquered Great Britain is absolutely inconceivable, despite his own
boastful assurance on that point, which lasted, or appeared to last, to
the end of his life.

However, these fears were at an end. Napoleon's career of conquest on
land continued unchecked; but at sea the flag of Great Britain reigned
supreme. Nelson's body lay in St. Paul's Cathedral; but before he died
he had done his work. He had saved his country from the iron heel of
Napoleon. So Mrs. Fairbank's letter contained no further descriptions
of invasion scares, such as she would have had to write two or three
years earlier, though it did contain certain references to the Emperor,
not too cautiously worded for a letter on its road to France. Some past
and futile hopes of a peace between England and France were alluded to
also.

"I'll read it aloud to you—may I?" asked Roy again, when Captain Ivor
had made his appearance, refreshed and smartened as to the outer man,
and had been made to sit down to a hastily prepared meal, to which he
failed to do justice. "And," Roy added, recalling Lucille's words, "you
can get on the sofa, and have a rest."

Ivor declined to pose as an invalid, and submitted only to being
installed in the Colonel's large arm-chair, while Roy plunged into Mrs.
Fairbank's epistle, wading through it on the whole successfully, though
not without an occasional suggestion of skipping.

"It's written, 'Bath, August 4th, 1806,'—ever so long ago," he remarked
as a preliminary. "But she didn't get it all done in one day—not near.
I can leave out the other dates. They don't matter."

   "'MY DEAR SIR,—Though 'tis somewhat hopeless work writing under the
present aspect of affairs, I will send another letter, wishing that it
may by some means reach you in safety. We still look out perpetually,
with Constant Anxiety, for any sort of news of yourselves, which indeed
but seldom arrives. These passing years are truly melancholy to think
upon. Molly is now fifteen, and has not seen Roy for a space of three
years and more. Who could have thought—'"

"O I say, can't I skip this? She does go on so. Well, I won't, if you'd
rather not; but it's no good, you know."

   "'Who could have thought it, my dear Sir, when you and your wife
unhappily decided to make that doleful excursion to France, intending
to stay but one fortnight, which resulted in this Continued separation?
Alas, how little man knows ever what lies Before him in the Future!'"

"But what's the good of her saying all that?"

   "'The late tremendous storms about Lonⁿ have caused much Alarm, but
these terrors seem to be now somewhat Abating. I have been to the
Pump Room and to the Circulating Library, and find people are not
much elevated at the prospect of Mr. Fox concluding a Peace in the
present dolorous situation, it being confidently said he cannot live a
fortnight, and that he knows his situation."

   "'Mackbeth said Lady Mackbeth
     Should have died yesterday.'"

   "'I presume that you with ourselves greatly lamented the death
of Mr. Pitt last spring; a sad event at so critical a period.'"

"But I don't see what she means about Macbeth, do you, Den? It's so
funny. Do you know, we got the 'Times' with all about the 'obsequies'
of Mr. Fox, and a picture of the hearse; and I kept it. I can show it
to you by and by."

   "'A laughable jest was not long since in circulation here, that
Bonaparte intended to compel the Pope to marry his Mother. There are a
society of monied people in Bath, buying all the Houses they can meet
with, on Speculation, which raises them and also Lodgings, which, with
the taxes, are high beyond any former period, and in the end will be a
disadvantage to Bath; for the Keepers of Lodging Houses, if they can't
raise the price of rooms, oblige the strangers to take or at least
pay for more than they want. The times do indeed afford a Melancholy
Prospect. And still Bonaparte exists!'"

   "'If you have not, do read the Secret History of the Cabinet of St.
Cloud. I have had quite a levée this Morning. Two ladies quite in a pet
that they cannot get Genteel Lodgings for themselves and Maids under 80
or 90 pounds a year. Bath fills with company. It is rumoured that the
Country Bankers are expected to have a run upon them for a little time;
on what account I don't clearly understand; therefore shall endeavour
to get as many of their five-pound notes changed as I can at the shops,
by buying store of Candles, Sugar, etc., for they, the Bankers, will
not part with any cash.'"

"Now we're going to get something more interesting."

   "'Jack is with us for a fortnight, and he and Polly went this
morning to the Public Library, and heard a Group of Gentlemen's very
serious opinions on the condition of Affairs at the present moment.
What a succession of triumphs attends the Corsican, wicked Elf!
Poor old England stands alone; but how long—?'"

   "'General Moore, who, as you doubtless are aware, is now Sir John
Moore, and has been these two years past, continues to Befriend Jack,
when opportunity offers. Jack is sorely disappointed at not being of
the number sent on this Expedition to Sicily. He hopes he may yet be
ordered thither, if more troops are wanted. I don't for my part know
precisely what they may be doing there; but doubtless the Government
has good reasons for all that's done. How much you in your long
banishment may hear of Public News we have no means of guessing, my
dear Sir, but most heartily do I wish it were over, and the Blessings
of an assured Peace once more restored to Europe. Alas, while that
persistent Disturber of Peace continues to flourish, what can be looked
for but persistent War? 'Tis said that Mr. William Wilberforce declares
that Austerlitz was the death-blow to Mr. Pitt.'"

   "'Polly desires me to send her due Remembrances to Captain Ivor, and
her hopes that he continues well in health. She writ him awhile since
a long letter, tho' 'tis disheartening work, none knowing if ever the
letters sent do arrive. Polly is extremely well, and has her Roses
in full bloom, and is in vastly good spirits, albeit she was greatly
disappointed at the failure of the Peace negotiations, on which Mr. Fox
built much, but without cause. 'Tis said that she grows a more elegant
young woman each year; and for my part I know not if this be not the
truth. Molly is fast becoming a grown-up young woman; and there is in
her face—altho' she is not handsome—an expression of such fine Moral
Sensibility as cannot but gratify the Beholder.'"

Roy made a slight pause when Polly's name came up, as if wondering
whether Denham would say anything; but the break was not taken
advantage of, and his still face said nothing. So Roy went on to the
end, gabbling rather hurriedly through Molly's affectionate and prim
little composition to himself, which somehow always gave him a sense of
stricture in the throat.

"That's all. Nothing more."

"There may be scores of letters buried in official bureaux," suggested
Mrs. Baron. "From—Polly and all of them."

Denham was looking steadily down, with an expression which to her, as
to Roy, was inscrutable. No response came to the suggestion. He merely
said, after a pause:

"I think that letter should be destroyed, Colonel. Unsafe to keep."

Colonel Baron made a sound of assent. Home subjects then were dropped,
and Denham was plied with questions as to his manner of life at
Valenciennes. He had a good deal to tell, and his account of the
Commandant there contrasted favourably with their experiences of
General Wirion.

The next day was by common consent granted to Roy as a whole holiday.
His studies had been carried on partly under the young clergyman, Mr.
Kinsland, partly under his father, during the last eighteen months; but
a free day seemed only fair, in honour of Denham's return. The boy was
in wild spirits, full of schemes for hunting up old friends in Denham's
company. Denham did not appear at all till after breakfast, just in
time to attend appel; and Roy, having been withheld from disturbing
him, was off on some business of his own. When, after appel, he rushed
in, it was to find Denham in the Colonel's chair, with a book open
which he was not reading, and with the look of a man who would not be
easily dislodged. His face told its own tale; and Roy's look became
suddenly blank.

"I'm afraid there's no help for it, Roy. You must give me a day's
grace. I've done a good deal of walking, you see;"—which was a mild
statement of the case.

"I thought you'd be rested by this morning."

"Ought! but Morpheus declined to be courted."

"Couldn't you sleep? And you don't want to go out?"

"I don't think a team of horses could drag me a mile. But you will look
up the Curtises for me."

"Yes, of course. Where are they? O you don't know. I'll find out. Is
that it?"

"See where Carey is, too."

"Carey? Wasn't it he that had your horse—the horse you ought to have
ridden?"

"No 'ought' in the question. Don't say a word of that sort to him. I
want to know where he is putting up. And—Franklyn—"

"Roy, do not make him talk," as Denham's hand went over his eyes.

"No, ma'am, I won't. Only just to know—but 'tis all right now. I'll
look everybody up, Den; and don't you mind about anything till your
head is better."

Roy went off, and Lucille came softly to where Mrs. Baron stood. "So
changed!" Mrs. Baron murmured.

"Oui," assented Lucille, under her breath. "There are creatures,
Madame, that cannot live in captivity."

"Somebody over there is talking not very good sense," murmured Denham.
Lucille stopped instantly, with a blush. The remark had been on her
part involuntary, and she had not imagined that he could hear.



CHAPTER XIX

ROY'S IMPRUDENCE

Roy went the round of a good many returned acquaintances that morning,
finding out, as he went, from one and another where next to direct his
steps.

He discovered Franklyn and Carey without difficulty, and in time learnt
where the Curtises had bestowed themselves. From each and all the same
tale was told him as to Denham. Captain Ivor's kindness and generosity
towards those who had been in difficulties—and their number was not
small—formed a general theme.

"What we should have done, but for him—!" was an expression which
occurred again and again. Roy no longer wondered that he had been
"cleared out" to his last sou. He did his best to encourage the
grateful outpourings, asking questions at every pause.

He had twelve o'clock lunch with the Woodgates, finding himself at some
distance from home, with his task not accomplished. By this time he was
much excited, and rather off his balance.

The Curtises came next, last on his round. Roy hunted out the rooms in
which they had taken refuge, and again heard a good deal about Denham,
as well as about their own doings during the last few months.

"I say, I don't think you've got into very nice quarters," he said,
surveying the walls.

"Best we can afford, old man. By and by we hope to change. I want to
start painting again, and one must have a good light. Got a new idea in
my mind."

"You won't take the trouble to copy that, anyhow," remarked Roy,
pointing at a good-sized plaster bust of Napoleon, which stood on the
mantelpiece. "I wouldn't keep the wretched thing there, if I were you."

"My dear boy, it's from no sort of devotion to the original, I
assure you. But what's to be done? Our landlady is a flaring
red-hot Bonapartist. Raved about him for an hour this morning to my
wife,—didn't she, dear?"

"I told her politely that I should like him better if he would kindly
allow us to go home," added Mrs. Curtis.

"I'm afraid it wouldn't suit her views, if we got rid of the Emperor,
and put King George instead. Take care, Roy. Look out."

Roy was standing by the table, on which lay a little heap of
wood-chips. Curtis always had something in hand,—either painting or
moulding or carving. If no other occupation presented itself, he
would content himself with whittling a piece of wood into scraps; and
apparently this had been his last occupation. Roy took up a chip, aimed
carefully at the bust, and flung it.

"Missed, by half an inch! I'll try again. That's right. Hit him fair
and square on the nose."

Roy was in a wild mood, delighted to find some vent for his happiness,
and not to be easily checked. He aimed chip after chip at that
self-contained face of world-wide fame, sometimes hitting, sometimes
missing. When for the third time he succeeded in touching the nose, he
was hilariously delighted. "Bravo, bravo!" he cried. "Down with the old
fellow! Á bas l'Empéreur!"

"Sh-h! Roy, be careful. You'll certainly get yourself into trouble."

"All right. Nobody here but ourselves. I say, I wish I could do this to
the real individual. Wouldn't it be a game worth playing? Á bas the old
chap. Down with Nap!"

Roy's excitement went beyond bounds. He seized a solid ball belonging
to the baby, and aimed with precision.

"Á bas! Empéreur!"

Down came the bust, with a crash, into the fender, and was smashed.

Roy stood still, suddenly conscious of having done a very silly thing,
and a shriek sounded in his rear. The door had just been opened, the
landlady had appeared, and she was now shaking her fists, and executing
a dance of rage.

"I say, Roy,—stop! Don't go on fooling like this. You'll get us all
into trouble." Curtis spoke roughly, realising in a moment that matters
might become serious. "Tell her you mean nothing by it."

"Mean nothing! But of course I do mean—"

"Roy! Will you hold your tongue? Stop this foolery!"

Roy obeyed; while the woman, shaking her fists, continued to pour out
a torrent of abuse, in the midst of which occurred several times the
ominous word, "gendarmes."

Curtis went nearer to her and spoke in his quietest tones.

"Madame is mistaken," he said. "Nothing is intended. Monsieur is but a
boy, and Monsieur was but in jest."

"It is an insult to l'Empéreur! It shall be made known," screamed the
other.

"I beg of you to hear me. It is no insult. This gentleman had no wish,
none whatever, to break the figure. He did but aim at it in jest—as
English Messieurs love to do. Not because it was a bust of the Emperor,
but to have something to aim at," explained Curtis.

He might as well have addressed himself to the winds.

"A jest!—and as to the Emperor! Truly a fit subject for a jest. But the
thing shall be known. M. le Général Wirion shall hear. Ah-ha and we
shall see what the gendarmes will say to Monsieur's little jest! Eh-he,
Monsieur,—I know a thing or two as to les Anglais, I can tell you. And
my ornament that is broken—broken all in pieces—"

"Madame shall have full value for that."

Roy felt in his pockets. "I've only five francs here. But it can't be
worth more."

"You won't get off with the mere market value of the thing," Curtis
replied in English. "I have five, and not a sou besides in the house at
this moment. Here—offer her the ten."

Roy's hand was thrust contemptuously aside.

"Non, vraiment! Dix francs! Does Monsieur think ten francs will pay for
that?"—tragically pointing towards the fragments in the fender. "An
image of the Emperor! Non, Monsieur! I go to the General."

"How much?" Curtis tried to make her say.

She gesticulated furiously, and declined payment. It was an insult to
the Emperor. Did Monsieur imagine that money would wipe out that? Did
Monsieur suppose that she cared only for her own loss?—bah!—nothing
of the kind, though Madame was a widow, and could ill afford to lose
anything. But this was a profound matter. Madame had a duty to perform,
and incontestably she would perform it.

With which declaration the irate landlady disappeared.

"That's awkward," Curtis said seriously. "She is the first of the
sort that I have come across yet. We had a nice little landlady at
Valenciennes. Roy, you had better be off sharp. She may not know your
name."

"And leave you to bear the blame for what I've done! I'm not so mean!"

"It's not meanness. She may cool down when she does not see you, and I
must make another attempt. Of course I know that your father will pay
anything in reason to get you out of the difficulty. Be off, Roy."

"But she knows my name well enough. She has seen me before, I'm sure."

"All the more reason why you shouldn't stay here. Get home as fast
as you can, and tell your father at once. Don't put off. I hope it
will come to nothing; but Wirion is certain not to lose his chance of
putting on the screw, and squeezing money out of your people. Run off,
as fast as you can. I'll tackle her again."

Roy obeyed, by this time rather serious. "I wonder what does come over
a fellow sometimes to make him make a fool of himself," he cogitated.



CHAPTER XX

ORDERED TO BITCHE

ROY forgot everything except the affair on hand. He dashed upstairs and
into the salon at a headlong pace, knocking over a chair as he entered.
It fell with a crash, and Roy stopped short. Denham was on the sofa, no
one else being present except Lucille, who, with her bonnet on, as if
she were going out, had just taken an empty cup from his hand.

"Roy, you unkind boy," she said, turning with a look of positive anger.
"How you can do it!"

"I'm sorry. I didn't remember. Isn't Den better?"

"Not remember! But you ought to remember. So without thought! It is
selfishness."

For Lucille to be seriously displeased with Roy was an event new in his
experience, and Roy gazed with astonished eyes.

"No matter," interposed Denham. "Had a good time, Roy?"

"I've seen lots of people. Den, I'm sorry—really. I didn't mean—"

"No, of course not. It's all right."

"Where is my father?" Roy asked in a subdued voice.

"Gone out but ten minutes since," said Lucille. "General Cunningham
sent to see him on business. And Colonel Baron has to go with him
somewhere, and cannot return soon. So dinner is put off till six."

"And mother?"

"Mrs. Baron had a call to pay in the same direction. Captain Ivor
thought he might get an hour's sleep. Roy, be good, I entreat. Do not
fidget, and knock over the chairs, and talk, talk, talk without ending."

Roy nodded, and Lucille moved towards the door, adding as she went, "I
also have to see some one, but I shall be back soon."

Roy sat down in his favourite attitude, facing the back of a chair, and
wondering what to do next. Would it be right to tell Denham what had
happened? Would it be wrong to put off telling? Curtis had enjoined him
to speak at once; but Curtis had not known the posture of affairs. The
matter might be of consequence, or it might not. Roy was disquieted,
but not seriously uneasy; and he hesitated to worry Denham without
cause.

"Seen anybody?" asked Ivor.

"Yes, numbers."

Then a break.

"Found Curtis?"

"Yes. And Carey too. Would you like to hear all about it?"

"By and by, I think. It will keep."

Silence again, and Roy debated afresh. What if his action should mean
bringing Curtis into trouble? That thought had considerable weight.

Three times he formed with his lips the preliminary "I say, Den!" and
three times he refrained. The third time some slight sound escaped him,
for Denham asked drowsily, "Anything you want?"

"Lucille told me not to talk. Does it matter?"

Ivor did not protest, as Roy had half hoped. He was evidently dropping
off, and Roy decided that a short delay was unavoidable. He took up
a volume that lay near, and, being no longer a book-hater, he became
absorbed in its contents. General Wirion, chips of wood, the Imperial
nose, and irate landladies faded out of his mind. The affair was no
doubt a pity, but after all it meant only—so Roy supposed—a pull upon
his father's purse. Boys are rather apt to look upon parental purses as
unlimited in depth.

Denham was sound asleep, and Roy kept as motionless as a girl—not that
girls are always quiet. An hour passed; another half-hour; and he began
to grow restless. Might it be possible to slip away?

Gruff voices and heavy trampling feet in the hall below broke into the
stillness, and Denham woke up. "This is lazy work," he said wearily.
"Roy—here yet! What time is it?"

"Nearly five. Dinner isn't till six. Head any better?"

"Yes, rather. I'm wretched company for you to-day. Different to-morrow,
I hope."

"You can't help it. You've just got to get rested, that's all. I say,
what a noise they are making downstairs. Frenchmen do kick up such a
rumpus about everything."

The door opened hurriedly, and Lucille came in, wearing still her
bonnet, as if just returned from a walk.

"I am sorry," she said. "I do not know what it means, but I must tell.
I have no choice. It surely must be a mistake—it cannot be truly—"

Lucille startled herself no less than her listeners by a sharp sob. She
caught Roy's arm with both hands, holding him fast. "Roy, Roy, what is
it that you have done? Ah, what have you done?" she cried.

"Is it that bosh about the image? I know. They want to be paid.
Lucille, Den has been asleep, and I've been as quiet as anything, and
then for you to come in like this I Den, you must keep still, and I'll
speak to them. I'll settle it all."

"No, no, no!—stay, you must not go!" panted Lucille. "Stay—it is the
gendarmes! And they come to arrest you—to take you away!"

The word "gendarmes" acted as an electric shock, bringing Denham to his
feet.

"What is it all about? I do not understand." He touched Roy on the
shoulder, with an imperative, "Tell me."

"It was only—I'd have told before, only I didn't like to bother you.
It was at Curtis's. There was a bust of Boney on the mantelshelf, and
I just shied bits of wood at it in fun. And I said 'Á bas Napoléon,'
or something of that sort, and then I threw a ball, and the idiotic
thing tumbled down and broke into pieces. And the landlady—she's a
regular out-and-out virago—happened that very moment to come in, and
she saw and heard. And she vowed she would tell of it. Curtis tried
to explain things, and I offered to pay, but she wouldn't listen. She
went on shrieking at us, and said it was an insult to the Emperor, and
Wirion should know of it. She's a Bonapartist—worse luck! Curtis made
me hurry off, and said I was to tell my father at once. But he was out,
and you—you know—" with a glance at Lucille, who wrung her hands, while
Ivor said—

"Roy, were you utterly mad?"

"I don't know. Was it very stupid? Will it matter, do you think? I'm
sorry about you most. I thought they would wait till to-morrow; but
I suppose they want me to pay directly. Is that it?" looking towards
Lucille.

"No, no, no!" she answered, again wringing her hands. "It is to take—to
take you—to the citadel!"

"To the citadel!" Roy opened his eyes. "I say, what a farce! For
knocking down an image not worth fifty sous!"

"For breaking the bust of the Emperor, and for shouting 'Á bas—'"
Lucille could not finish.

"You mean that they will keep him there to-night?" said Denham.

She looked at him with eyes that were almost wild with fear. "Oui,
oui—the citadel to-night! And to-morrow, they say, to Bitche."

"To—Bitche!" whispered Roy. He grew white, for that word was a sound of
terror in the ears of English prisoners, and his glance went in appeal
to Ivor.

"Stay here, Roy. I will speak to them."

Ivor crossed the room with his resolute stride and went out, meeting
the gendarmes on the stairs. Lucille clutched Roy's arm again, half in
reproach, half in protection. "Ah, my poor boy I—mon pauvre garcon!—how
could you? Ah, such folly! As if there were not already trouble enough!
Ah, my unhappy Roy!"

"Shut up, Lucille! You needn't jaw a fellow like that! It can't mean
anything, really, you know. Wirion just thinks he can screw a lot of
money out of my father. And that's the worst of it," declared Roy, in
an undertone. "I hate to have done such a stupid thing; and I hate the
worry of it for Den, just now when he's like this. But you know they
couldn't really send me to Bitche, only for smashing a paltry image. It
would be ridiculous."

"Ah, Roy! even you little know—you—what it means to be under a despot
such as—but one may not dare to speak."

Lucille's tears came fast. They stood listening. From the staircase
rose loud rough voices, alternating with Ivor's not loud but masterful
tones. That he was a prisoner, and that they had power to arrest him
too, if they chose, made not a grain of difference in his bearing.
It was not defiant or excited, but undoubtedly it was haughty;
and Lucille, just able to see him where she stood, found herself
wondering—did he wish to go to prison too with Roy? She could almost
have believed it.

"Eh bien, Messieurs; since l'Empéreur sees fit to war with schoolboys,
so be it," she heard him say sternly, in his polished French. "To me,
as an Englishman, it appears that his Majesty might find a foe more
worthy of his prowess."

"But, ah! why make them angry?" murmured Lucille.

A few more words, and Denham came back. One look at his face made
questions almost needless.

"Then I am to go, Den?"

"I fear—no help for it. The men have authority. You will have to spend
to-night in the citadel. But I am coming with you, and I shall insist
upon seeing Wirion himself."

"But you—you cannot—you are ill," remonstrated Lucille. "Will not
Colonel Baron go—not you?"

He put aside the objection as unimportant.

"Roy must take a few things with him, not more than he can carry
himself. I hope it may be only for the one night. They allow us twenty
minutes. That is a concession."

"I will put his things together for him," said Lucille quickly. "I can
choose what he will most need."

"One moment. May I beg a kindness?"

"Anything in the world."

"If Colonel Baron does not return before we start—and he will not—would
you, if possible, find him, and ask him to come at once to the citadel?
Then Mrs. Baron—"

Ivor's set features yielded slightly. The thought of Roy's mother
without her boy was hard to face. Lucille watched him with grieved eyes.

"I will tell her, but not everything—not yet as to Bitche, for that may
be averted. I will stay with her—comfort her—do all that I am able. Is
that what you would wish?"

"God bless you," he said huskily, and she hurried away.

"Den, have I got to go with those fellows really?" asked Roy, beginning
to understand what he had brought upon himself. "I never thought of
that. Can't you manage to get me off? Won't they let me wait till my
father comes home?"

"They will consent to no delay. He will follow us soon. And, Roy, I
must urge you to be careful what you say. Any word that you may let
slip, without thinking, will be used against you. I hoped you had
learnt that lesson."

A listener, overhearing Denham with the gendarmes, might have
questioned whether he had learnt it himself; but Roy was in no
condition of mind to be critical. He could not restrain some measure of
dismay.

"And if you and my father can't get me off! If I am sent to Bitche—"

"If you are,—" with more of an effort than Roy could imagine, for
Denham knew far better than Roy what such "sending" would mean—"then
you will meet it like a man. Whatever comes, you will be brave and true
through all. Keep up heart, and remember that it is only for a time.
We shall do everything in our power to get you back here. And—I know
you'll never let yourself be drawn into anything that you would be
ashamed to tell your father."

"Or—you," with a slight catch of his breath.

"Or me either. You won't forget that you are an Englishman. For your
mother's sake you must bear patiently, even if things are disagreeable.
Don't make matters worse by useless anger. And—you'll think sometimes
how she will be praying for you."

Denham found it not easy to say the words, and Roy's lips were unsteady.

"Yes, I will. Only, if you could get me off—I'd rather, you know."

"My dear boy—if they would take me in your stead—"

"Den, I'm awfully sorry! It isn't that I'm afraid—of course I'm not
that. But it's so horrid to have to go. Just when you've come back, and
it would have been so jolly—and it's such a horrid bother for you too.
I do wish I had let that wretched image alone!"

Ten minutes later the two started, Roy under the gendarme escort, Ivor
keeping pace with them. Lucille then hastened away on her sorrowful
mission, leaving a message with old M. Courant, in case either Colonel
or Mrs. Baron should return during her absence,—not the same message
for Mrs. Baron as for the Colonel. A short search brought her into
contact with the latter, and she poured forth a breathless tale.
Heavier and heavier grew the cloud upon his face. He knew too well the
uses that might be made of Roy's boyish escapade. At the sound of that
dread word "Bitche," a grey shadow came.

"Captain Ivor went with Roy to the citadel. He ought not, he has been
so suffering all day, but he would not let Roy go alone. And he asked,
would you follow them as soon as possible? For me, I will find Mrs.
Baron, and will stay with her."

The Colonel muttered words of thanks, and went off at his best speed.

Would he and Captain Ivor be able to do anything? Would they even be
admitted to the presence of the autocratic Commandant? Denham might
talk of insisting; but prisoners had no power to insist. If he did, he
might only be thrown into prison himself. Was that what he wanted—to go
with the boy? "Ah—j'espère que non!" Lucille muttered fervently. And if
they were admitted, what then? Would money purchase Roy's immunity from
punishment? General Wirion's known cupidity gave some ground for hope.
Yet—would he neglect such an opportunity for displaying Imperialist
zeal?

Lucille put these questions to herself as she flew homeward. On the way
she met little Mrs. Curtis, and for one moment stopped, in response to
the other's gesture.

"Is it true?" Mrs. Curtis asked, with a scared look. "They tell me Roy
has been arrested. Is it so? My husband could do nothing. The landlady
was off before he could speak to her again. He thought that Roy and the
Colonel would be coming round directly, and so he waited in. But they
did not come; and now two gendarmes are quartered in our lodgings, and
Hugh may not stir without their leave. It is horrid. But—Roy?"

"I cannot wait. Roy is taken to the citadel. I have to see to his
mother. Do not keep me, madam, I entreat;" and again Lucille sped
homeward.

As she had hoped, yet dreaded, she found Mrs. Baron indoors before
herself, alone in the salon, and uneasy at Captain Ivor's absence.

"He ought not to have gone out," Mrs. Baron said. "He will be seriously
ill, if he does not let himself rest. It is Roy's doing, I suppose—so
thoughtless of Roy. I must tell Denham that I will not have him spoil
my boy in this way. It is not good for Roy, and Denham will suffer for
it. You do not know where he is gone?"

"Oui," faltered Lucille, and Mrs. Baron looked at her.

"You have been crying. What is it?"

As gently as might be, Lucille broke the news of what had happened; and
Mrs. Baron seemed stunned. Roy—her Roy—in the hands of the pitiless
gendarmes! Roy imprisoned in the citadel! Lucille made no mention of
Bitche; but too many prisoners had been passed on thither for the idea
not to occur to Mrs. Baron.

"And it was I who brought him to France! It was I who would not let him
be sent home, when he might have gone! O Roy, Roy!" she moaned. Lucille
had hard work to bring any touch of comfort.

Hour after hour crept by. Once a messenger arrived, with a pencil-note
from Colonel Baron to his wife—"Do not sit up if we are late. We are
doing what we can. I cannot persuade Denham to go back."

Not sit up! Neither Mrs. Baron nor Lucille could dream of doing
anything else. This suspense drew them together; and Lucille found
herself to be one with the Barons in their trouble.

Nine o'clock, ten o'clock, and at length eleven o'clock struck. Soon
after came a sound of footsteps—not of eager boyish steps. No Roy came
bounding into the room. Lucille had found fault with him that afternoon
for impulsiveness, but now from her very heart she would have welcomed
his merry rush. Only Colonel Baron and Ivor entered.

The Colonel's face was heavily overclouded; while Denham's features
were rigid as iron, and entirely without colour.

"Roy?" whispered Mrs. Baron.

Deep silence answered the unspoken question. Colonel Baron stood with
folded arms, gazing at his wife. Denham moved two or three paces away,
and rested one arm on the back of a tall chair, as if scarcely able to
keep himself upright.

"Roy?" repeated Mrs. Baron, her voice sharpened and thinned. "You have
not brought—Roy."

A single piercing cry rang out. She stopped the sound abruptly, with
one quick indrawing of her breath, and waited.

Colonel Baron tried to speak, and no sound came. Denham remained
motionless, not even attempting to raise his eyes.

"Oui," Lucille said restlessly. "Il est—il est—"

The Colonel managed a few short words. There was no possibility of
softening what had to be said.

"To-night—the citadel. To-morrow—to Bitche!"

"To Bitche!" echoed Lucille. "Ah-h!"

To Bitche—that terrible fortress prison, the nightmare of Verdun
prisoners! Their Roy to be sent to Bitche! Mrs. Baron swayed slightly,
as if on the verge of fainting. Her petted Roy, her idolised darling,
her boy so tenderly cared for—to be hurried away to Bitche!

It could hardly have been said which of the two Lucille was watching
with the more strained attention—Mrs. Baron, stunned and wordless, or
Denham Ivor, with that fixed, still face of suffering.

"And nothing—nothing—can be done?" she asked.

"We have tried—everything," the Colonel answered gloomily.



CHAPTER XXI

A GLIMPSE OF LOVELY POLLY

"Now, my dear Polly, I pray you make the very most this evening of your
charms. Somebody will be there whom you little think to see."

Polly and Molly, both on a visit to the Bryces in London, looked up
sharply.

"Yes, indeed, and you may guess; but I vow you'll not divine the truth.
Two young maidens to have such good fortune. Had it come to me in my
young days, 'twould have driven me out of my senses with joy. But you
may conjecture, you may conjecture!"

Polly, seated upright on a straight-backed chair, looked as usual
exceedingly pretty. Her eyes, softer and more than ever like brown
velvet, took a far-away expression; and the delicate tinting of her
cheeks grew roseate. She said demurely—

"If I might conjecture that which my desires would prompt, ma'am, I
would say—Captain Ivor."

Mrs. Bryce tapped the floor impatiently with her slippered and
sandalled foot.

"Tut!—Pish!—Pshaw! To be sure, that is proper enough, my dear. But
now you may rest satisfied that you have uttered that which propriety
demands. And since Captain Ivor is a prisoner in foreign parts—likely
so to remain for many a long year to come—we'll e'en dismiss the
thoughts of him, and Molly shall say whom she would most desire to meet
at the dance to-night."

Molly sat upon a second straight-backed chair, busily netting. She was
more altered from the child of eleven or twelve than her twin-brother
in the same lapse of time. She had not grown tall, but she had gained
rounder outlines. Her black eyes looked less big and less anxious,
partly because the face had lost its peakiness. A healthy complexion
and an expression of straightforward earnestness served in lieu of good
looks. Though Molly Baron would never be a "belle," she might become a
woman to whom men and women alike would turn, with a restful certainty
of finding in her what they wanted. Her reply, no less prompt than
Polly's, consisted of a single syllable—

"Roy!"

"But Roy, like Captain Ivor, is a prisoner, child. Like to remain so
also. Who next?"

"Jack!"

"Nay, Jack is nobody. Jack is one of ourselves—a genteel young fellow
enough, but better than Jack awaits you this evening."

"Bob!" with equal rapidity.

"Bob Monke is well enough in his way too; but you must go further
afield, child. Eh, Polly—what if it be Captain Peirce?"

"Captain Peirce better than Jack or than Bob? Nay!" Molly said
indignantly.

Polly's colour went up again, as it was wont to do on slight
provocation, delicately and prettily. She also tossed her head, and
arranged the light scarf which covered her shoulders.

"Captain Peirce is welcome, if he so choose, ma'am," she replied
carelessly.

"I do not like Captain Peirce," murmured Molly.

"Nobody desired you to like Captain Peirce, my dear Molly. 'Tis vastly
more to the point whether Polly likes him, since of a certainty Captain
Peirce's affections are engaged in a certain direction, which may be
named without difficulty. Captain Peirce is a prodigious favourite with
everybody—especially, I can assure you, with all the young women of
mode. And he has eyes for none of 'em except Polly."

Polly looked studiously on the floor, and Molly frowned.

"If Captain Peirce were what a man should be, he would never, sure,
come after Polly as he does, knowing that Polly is promised to another,
and he out of reach."

"Tut, tut, my dear Molly! Pish! Pshaw! What know you of such matters?
A chit of a young female of sixteen! I'm positively shamed of you.
Why, you're scarce out of the nursery, child. And here's Polly, the
prettiest girl in all London, past twenty-one, and not yet married! No,
nor like to be, while old Nap lives, if she wait for Captain Ivor; and
depend on 't, old Nap'll not die yet for many a long year. Is Polly to
delay till her prettiness goes, and she turns into an elderly maiden,
whom no man of ton will deign to cast eyes upon, while Captain Ivor
spends fifteen or twenty years in France, and forgets his past fancy,
and marries some beauteous young Frenchwoman?"

Molly gazed at Polly's downcast face. "But Polly knows Denham better,"
she said.

"Knows Captain Ivor better! And how may that be," demanded the
vivacious lady, "since Polly has seen him but from time to time, and
that at long intervals, and I have been acquainted with him since he
was left an orphan at the age of seven? Nor have I a word to speak
against Captain Denham Ivor, save only that to expect Polly to wait for
him twenty years, losing her bloom and growing old, would be altogether
unreasonable."

"Polly is yet a good way off from growing old," persisted Molly.

"Well, well, that's as may be. But you've not divined my secret yet.
Jack will be at my Lady Hawthorne's to-night; and 'tis not Jack of whom
I speak. Bob Monke is like to be there, for aught I know, and 'tis
not Bob. Captain Peirce will be there, and 'tis not Captain Peirce.
Somebody else will be there,—and 'tis he."

Mrs. Bryce lifted a book from the table. "Who was it that read last
week the 'Lay of the Last Minstrel,' and that said she would give half
she was possessed of, to set eyes on the writer of that most elegant
poem?"

"Mr. Walter Scott!" The rapture on Molly's face repaid Mrs. Bryce, who,
whatever her faults might have been, did dearly love to give pleasure.
Polly too smiled, but more quietly, having her mind greatly preoccupied.

"Mr. Walter Scott is now in London, and he will be at my Lady
Hawthorne's assemblage. So now, Miss, what say you to my promise
of somebody that shall be worth seeing? You may count yourself a
fortunate young woman! At your early age, not only to have a personal
acquaintance with so distinguished a martial hero as Sir John Moore,
but also to have had a sight of Mr. Southey, and of Mr. Southey's
friend, Mr. William Wordsworth,—and now to be brought face to face with
Mr. Scott himself. I give you joy of such good fortune."

"And I love the 'Lay of the Last Minstrel' infinitely more than I love
'Thalada,'" remarked Molly. "Sure, ma'am, so great a poet as Mr. Scott
has never yet been known."

"If the public voice be true, 'tis even so. Mr. Southey complains
sorely of his ill-luck in the poor sale of his poems, and I know not
that Mr. Wordsworth has much to boast of. Whereas Mr. Scott's poems go
off by the myriad, and are read of all. I'm informed that Mr. Constable
this year is paying him one thousand pounds in advance for a poem not
yet completed—a poem about a place named 'Rokeby.' But now 'tis full
time you began to prepare yourselves; and Polly must look her best."

Polly was in nowise unwilling. It was as natural to her to adorn her
dainty self, as to a wren to preen and perk. Molly, being no professed
beauty, made shorter work of her toilette. Her white muslin gown was
of the simplest, and her short black hair was all but hidden under a
turban of white silk. But every strand of Polly's abundant mane needed
attention, though crowned by a fantastic hat with lofty white feathers;
and her embroidered white gown, made with its waist close under the
arm-pits, left throat and snowy shoulders bare. The skirt was clinging
and scanty; and a large white muff completed her ballroom equipment,
except that a light scarf was wound round the said shoulders, and that
the dainty feet bore satin slippers.

Polly looked exquisitely pretty. Her skin was like ivory; the
blush-rose tinting was just where it ought to have been; and the smile
in her velvet eyes was a perfect sunbeam.

She could never enter a crowded room without becoming at once a centre
for all glances. Molly, close behind, was neglected by comparison, and
was content to have it so, not expecting admiration.

The one thing upon which her heart was set was the promised sight of
Mr. Walter Scott. His real work in life, the writing of the Waverley
Novels, had not then been even begun; but he was well known as the
author of divers historical ballads, which had taken the fashionable
world by storm.

Molly pictured him to herself as a quite ineffable individual, with
fathomless dark eyes and Rowing locks of ebony, such as should befit an
immortal poet. She sat upon her chair, quiet, neglected, yet perfectly
happy at the thought of the glorious sight which was soon to dawn upon
her vision. Mrs. Bryce's finger-tips roused her from a dream.

"Wake up, Molly. Are you asleep? Here he comes."

Molly looked around in eager quest. But she saw no wondrous form to
correspond to the image in her mind. A lame man, rather robust in
make, certainly not "elegant," with brown hair, flaxen eyebrows, a
long upper lip, and a genial expression,—no, that was no embodiment of
Molly's ideal. His eyes were light grey in colour, not dark and wild,
as a poet's should have been. Yet the gleams of arch brightness which
lighted up his face, as he talked, went a long way towards redeeming it
from homeliness.

Then Molly was called up to be presented to the poet.

He said a few kind words to the young girl—she could not afterwards
remember what they were. In later years she would be glad always to
know that she had spoken with him; but at the moment her mind was full
of its sudden disillusionment.



CHAPTER XXII

THE WAY OF THE WIND

MR. SCOTT passed on, surrounded by a host of friends, and Molly
returned to her seat. Rather a long pause had come, with no fresh
partners, Mrs. Bryce having too many irons in the fire to spare much
time for looking after the quiet country girl by her side. Molly cared
little. She liked to watch and listen, indulging in cogitations of
her own. Growing surfeited with Mrs. Bryce's gay talk, she turned her
attention to Admiral Peirce, who, close at hand, was holding forth in a
loud voice on the advantages of London as a place of residence.

"Why, sir," he was saying, "why, sir, there's nothing after all like
old Thames. Give me the blue ocean and tossing waves. But for a
landsman, why, the Thames is as good as he may look to find. And I tell
you what, sir, the water of the river Thames is the finest drinking
water in the world. Only has to stand and ferment a little, and then
it'll keep as long as ever you want it. Yes, sir, it will indeed."

Molly, being sublimely indifferent to the qualities of London drinking
water, which in those days was not a question of pressing interest,
wandered elsewhere. A slight pucker came between her smooth brows
as she made out Polly at a short distance, with Captain Peirce in
attendance. He was bending towards Polly, saying something in a low and
confidential voice. It could not be known from Polly's look whether she
were pleased or displeased.

The gay scene faded from Molly's vision. She was looking down,
thoughtfully, on her own half-furled fan. But she did not see the fan,
or the crowds of gay women around, with their low dresses and hats or
turbans, their scarves and muffs and satin shoes. Another scene had
risen before her mental eyes. She seemed again to be in a day long gone
by, and Roy was giving her a boisterous kiss.

"All right, Molly!" he was calling gaily. "It's only for two weeks, you
know, and then we shall be back." And as Roy ran off, in high glee, she
had looked up, and had seen Denham Ivor holding Polly's hands in a firm
clasp, while Polly's sweet face was downward, bent and blushing. But
it was not Polly who, in one moment, had left an indelible impression
upon Molly's childish memory. When she thought of that day, it was
always Ivor's face, always the young Guardsman's look of silent grave
devotion, which, unbidden, came up.

"How can Mrs. Bryce say such things? He will never, never forget,"
murmured Molly, her lips moving.

"Molly, this is, sure, scarce a place for audible meditation."

Molly's face grew bright, as Jack deposited himself in an empty chair
by her side.

"Were you spouting Mr. Scott's last new poem?"

"You love to plague me, Jack. Why should I be spouting aught?"

Jack gave her a quizzical look.

"Three dances with me to come, mind you, Molly."

"Two," corrected Molly. "My grandmother desired me to dance no more
than two with any one man. And what has become of Bob to-night?"

"Bob was on duty, and could not arrive till late. He desired me to
plead with you to keep at the least three dances for him."

"Nay, I will keep two," demurely replied Molly. "And what of Sir John?"
She had a quick womanly instinct, not possessed by all women, as to
what people would like to speak about, and she generally managed to hit
the mark, whence her quiet popularity in the little circle of those who
knew her well.

"I went to Cobham a week since, and saw his mother. She fears that Sir
John is sorely tried by these Sicilian complications. The Queen of the
Sicilies must be a strange personage. She detests the English, and
gives all her confidence to Frenchmen. Yet our Government fights in
defence of the King, her husband."

"And 'tis but a year since Sir John was on the alert to be sent to the
Indies."

"Ay, for he deems India to be by far the most important Colony our
nation has ever had. He thought he might well go for a while, since
matters in Europe were somewhat at a standstill."

"Was Buonaparte at a standstill, Jack?"

"Nay; but since the Battle of Trafalgar, there can be no further dread
of an invasion; and little was being done to check his progress on
the Continent. But Mr. Fox flatly declined to let Sir John go to the
Indies. He said England could not safely spare him."

"'Twas a marvellous beautiful diamond star that the officers of his
regiment presented to him when he was made Knight," observed Molly. "I
saw it last month, for the first time."

"And a fitter token of regard than brilliants could scarce have been
chosen for one of his transcendent purity of character," declared Jack.

Molly's attention wandered slightly, and Jack scanned her with an air
of brotherly criticism. He was very fond of Molly, and she of him. It
seemed to him this evening that she was looking particularly nice and
ladylike, or, in the phraseology of the day, "pleasing and genteel."
She was not pretty. Jack did not wish her to be pretty. He liked her
better as she was.

"And had Sir John gone out to India, you doubtless would have wished to
go also, Jack?"

"Doubtless," Jack replied at once. "In which case you would have missed
me, Molly? As much as you miss Roy?"

Molly laughed outright. "Jack!—Jack!—why, Jack! Roy is my twin. He is
more to me than all the world beside. Never in my life shall I care for
any other as I care for Roy."

Jack laughed in his turn derisively.

"Never, never, never!" repeated Molly. "O never! I love my father and
my mother dearly, and I love Polly, and Denham is a brother to me. And
I love my grandmother, And I—like you and Bob too. I like you both. But
Roy—Roy—he is more than all!"

"That is vastly well, Molly. But wait till your time shall come—till
somebody will be more to you than even Roy."

"Never!" reiterated Molly. "You mean that one day I shall have a
preference for—for some gallant gentleman! Nay, but I shall never
marry, for I could not care for any, beyond my caring for Roy. And so
that matter is for ever settled."

Jack was silent, perhaps a degree vexed. He was not in love with Molly
himself, and he believed that Bob Monke was in love with her. Perhaps
he was jealous for Bob. Perhaps he was jealous for himself. Though he
and Molly were simply friends—bon camarades, in modern parlance—he did
not quite see why he should rank second to the long-absent Roy.

Then again Molly's attention wandered, and Jack's glance followed hers.
Molly's brow puckered, and Jack's drew into a frown.

"She is wondrous pretty," Molly said softly.

"But Peirce—what business has Peirce? He knows, sure, as to Ivor!"

"Why, Jack, all the world knows."

"And Polly permits!"

"Does Polly permit? Can Polly help it? If she holds aloof, and seeks to
check those who come after her, they do but come the more. Polly cannot
be sharp with folks. She is so sweet, and 'tis not her way. And Mrs.
Bryce too, ever talking—" Molly breathed this very low—"ever seeking to
persuade Polly that Den will forget, and will care no more for her."

Jack muttered something to himself. "Then—'tis her wish?"

"The wish of Mrs. Bryce!" Molly's face took an arch set. "Ay, since
Captain Peirce came in for of money, on the death of his grandfather.
He will be a richer man than Den, by a matter of ten pounds to one."

"Phew!" muttered jack in disgust. "Ivor will have enough. If Polly
casts him off, she will deserve to suffer for it all her life long. She
will lose one of the best men living."



CHAPTER XXIII

IN VIEW OF CAPTAIN PEIRCE

"IN this brilliant assemblage of rank and fashion, though lightened by
the fire of genius and radiant with feminine charms, there is for me
but one star of greatest magnitude, before which all lesser orbs fade
into insignificance."

So spoke Captain Peirce in the ears of Polly Keene, and he felt that
he had expressed himself with the utmost elegance. Gentlemen in those
days were prone to more flowing speech than they are in these, and
such speeches did not necessarily mean much. Ninety years later, the
grandson or great-grandson of Captain Peirce would merely drag his
moustache and mutter, "Awfully pretty girl!" But the two modes of
expression, though rather unlike, probably implied and imply much the
same in the end.

Captain Peirce did not pull his moustache. It was not the fashion, and
he had none to pull. He bent a little nearer to Polly; and that was the
moment when Jack's glance followed Molly's.

Polly did not seem to repulse him. She did not even exert herself to
turn her head away. She had so much of this sort of thing. One flowery
speech more or less made very little difference. Had it not been for
the pressure put upon her by Mrs. Bryce, Polly would not have imagined
that Captain Peirce meant anything seriously. She stood in one of
her most graceful attitudes, toying with a fan; and the light from
innumerable wax candles fell upon her fair round arms.

"Can you by any chance divine who that star of greatest magnitude may
be, sweet Polly?"

This was audacious, and Captain Peirce fully expected a rebuff in
consequence.

It did not come so soon as he expected. A thrill ran through Polly,
almost amounting to a shiver. She was instantaneously carried back, as
a few minutes earlier Molly had been, bridging at a leap four long slow
years.

"Sweet Polly, may I speak?" Captain Ivor had said.

The voices were different. Ivor's was deep and quiet, with clear
enunciation; while that of Captain Peirce was some semitones higher in
key, with a rapid and rather indistinct intonation.

The other face, too, came up before Polly's mind—a face generally of
still outlines, grave and handsome, with eyes which looked other men
straight in the face, and level brows, not quick to frown, though
when they did there was no mistake about it, and a smile as quiet
as his voice. Captain Peirce was of smaller and slighter make, and
his features as well as his tone underwent much more rapid changes.
An impulsive man altogether; not bad-looking; and he had a certain
fascination of manner too when he chose to exert it. Polly was not
oblivious to the fascination while it lasted. Perhaps she liked his
unequivocal admiration, and did not dislike to feel her power over him.
But that flash of vivid recollection—did it arise from some subtle
connection between her mind and Molly's?—brought with it a totally
different look from any that Captain Peirce had seen upon her face.
Perhaps he might be excused for imagining that the change of expression
was due to his own words.

"Sweet Polly, you will not be one of the cruel fair who—"

This was going too far. Polly woke up from her dream. She withdrew one
step, and dropped a suggestion of a curtsey.

"Your pardon, sir. My name is Miss Keene, as you are aware."

"Ah! adored one—so hard-hearted to your humble slave!"

"My word, Albert!" and the heavy hand of his uncle, the Admiral, fell
with a smart slap upon the Captain's shoulder. "So, you do not fail to
make hay while the sun shines! But there's such a thing as poaching in
another's preserves, man. Ha, ha, Miss Polly! Well, and what news from
abroad of the unfortunate prisoners, eh?"

Captain Peirce wore the look of a thunder-cloud under this
interruption. He dared not openly resent it; not only because young
men in those times were far more submissive to older men than now, but
because, also, had he aroused the Admiral's ire, he would have drawn
upon them the attention of the whole room. Admiral Peirce was known
to be hasty in temper, and not slow to speak his mind. So he glowered
silently, and Polly looked with a smile into the battered face of the
old sailor, now on shore for a brief spell.

"Nay, sir, I have not heard for this very long while from any of
them, and it is but seldom we may hope to hear. Letters go astray by
hundreds. Doubtless they write, as do we—to no purpose."

"Ay, ay, trust Boney for that! He'll not help forward the post. Well,
well, every lane has its turning; and Boney will come to his turning
sooner or later. Nay, indeed, has he not already—at the glorious Battle
of Trafalgar, of immortal memory?"

"And on land too, sir,—in time our brave soldiers will have the best of
it, and will gain the reward that is due to their valour," suggested
Polly.

Captain Peirce's opportunity was gone; and though Polly did not appear
to avoid him, yet he found no second chance. Jack and Molly, looking
on, saw this little episode, and they wondered—had the old Admiral
acted accidentally or on purpose, and was Polly glad or sorry? Neither
question received an answer.

In the small hours of morning, when dancing was ended, Mrs. Bryce drove
home with the two girls, in the fine yellow coach, which was considered
to be a suitable "equipage" for one in her position. Mr. Bryce, having
a cold, had not gone with them. The girls retired to their room, and
Molly would have liked to question her companion, had she dared. But
Polly, with all her sweetness, could hold folks aloof if she chose; and
this night she did choose. She was very pale and tired—sad too, Molly
thought, now that the excitement was over. Few words passed between
them before they crept into bed.

Was that a sound of smothered weeping? Molly was all but asleep when it
aroused her. She listened carefully.

"Polly!" No answer. "Polly, are you awake?"

A pause, and then—"You must go to sleep, Molly."

"You are not crying, Polly?"

Polly's hand gently pressed hers, but Polly's face was turned away,
and another short break took place before she replied, in a tone of
strained cheerfulness—

"'Tis far too late. We may not lie and talk now. Go to sleep and dream.
No,—not one little word more."

Molly had to obey. Yet she felt sure that soon again she heard the tiny
smothered sound which had suggested tears. She lay long listening. Was
Polly thinking of Denham Ivor? Or could it be a question of Captain
Peirce?

      *     *     *     *     *     *     *

This side of life went on, and had to go on, even in such a period of
stormy unrest, of perpetual warfare between nations. Men and maidens
love and mate, work has to be done, hopes rise and sink, even the
lesser amusements and gaieties and the small daily occupations of
existence do not cease, though the whole world may be at loggerheads.

The deadly duel between Napoleon and Britain continued; and while
Britain was supreme on the ocean, Napoleon was all but irresistible
upon land. Of all the nations England alone withstood him; and at
this date she fearlessly faced Europe in arms. For the Continent had
crouched beneath the arm of the tyrant, and was tamely ranged on his
side.

In the year 1807 Great Britain had not a single ally. Sweden, the last
remaining, had been compelled by Russia to break away. One brother of
Napoleon's was king of Holland; another was king of Westphalia; a third
was king of Naples; while lesser European kingdoms and the congeries
of little German states had well-nigh disappeared into the vortex, and
French soldiers swaggered about the streets of Berlin.

Great Britain was neither crushed nor intimidated. She had flung off
the fear of invasion; and her ships triumphantly ranged the seas. She
had, indeed, as yet been less successful on land than at sea. Many a
battle had been gained, many a deed of splendid valour had been done.
But while one expedition after another had been despatched hither and
thither, with intent to undermine and weaken the enormous power of
Napoleon, most of these had failed to give any serious check to his
advances. England had an Army inadequate to her needs, both in numbers
and in military equipment; and the expeditions sent were invariably too
small for the work they had to do.

All this while the inner life of the nation flowed on. Taxes were
heavy, food was dear, much suffering existed; yet the spirit of the
people neither failed nor faltered. They were cheery and full of
courage, looking forward with high hope to a better state of things. In
a little while, surely, justice would be meted out, and the cause of
liberty would prevail.

Even in England Napoleon was not without his enthusiastic admirers.
There are always some whose party feeling is stronger than their
patriotism; and some others who will sentimentally put a man upon a
pedestal, with regard to his intellect only, apart from questions of
character. But the mass of the people was in deadly earnest. The nation
as a whole was ready to fight Buonaparte to the last coin in its purse,
the last drop of blood in its body.

One more tragic story had yet to be told. One more apparent failure,
which contained in itself the heroic germ of coming victory, had yet
to be lived through. One more great Englishman was to die, in the very
moment of a success which at the time could scarcely be read otherwise
than as a defeat. Then the turn of the tide would have begun.



CHAPTER XXIV

A BITTER EXPERIENCE

THAT march from Verdun to Bitche! If Roy Baron should live to be
a hundred years old, the bitterness of it would stand out still
pre-eminent in his memory.

He had at first only three English companions, middle-aged men, masters
of merchantmen, accused of trying to escape from close confinement in
the dungeon of the "Tour d'Angoulême" of the Verdun citadel. There,
for no apparent reason beyond caprice, they had been flung by the
Commandant's orders, and thence they were now no less arbitrarily
remanded to the worse dungeons of Bitche.

At the first halting-place they were joined by a second and larger
company—a party of English sailors, manacled two and two, like
criminals. Sailors of the Royal Navy, Roy knew at a glance; and he
caught a glimpse also of three or four middies behind them. Then his
attention was called off, as, to his unutterable wrath, he found
himself also on the point of being put into fetters.

Roy Baron—son of a Colonel in His Majesty's Guards—to be handcuffed!

The blood rushed to his face, then receded, leaving him as white as his
own shirt-front. He clenched his hands fiercely; and the merchantman
Captain who had addressed him at the first came a step nearer.

"Sir, it'll be worse for you if you resist! I wouldn't, sir—I wouldn't,
really!"

As if in echo Roy seemed to hear Denham's voice. "For your mother's
sake—" he had said. If Roy endured patiently, he might be the sooner
sent back to her.

The frank weather-beaten face of the sailor wore an anxious look. Roy
said gravely, "Thank you, Captain," and submitted, though not without a
sting of hot tears smarting under his eyelids at the indignity.

Then he flung himself flat on the ground, passionately hiding his face
in those manacled hands, and refusing the coarse food that was offered
to him. He had money in his possession, but Denham had advised him to
be in no haste to betray the fact.

"Never you mind," a voice said at his side, clear and chirpy as the
note of a robin. "There's nothing to be ashamed of, you know. 'Tis not
our fault. The shame is for them, not us. Cheer up, comrade."

The combined childishness and manliness of the voice made an odd
impression upon Roy. He pulled himself up, and found one of the middies
close by—a lad, perhaps two years his junior, with a rosy face. Roy
stared at him in bewilderment.

"You'd better eat while you can. None too good fare, eh?" —with the
same droll assumption of manliness. "As for these—" and he lifted his
little brown manacled hands—"it only shows that we're Englishmen. Ain't
you proud of that? I am!" Then a pause, and a return stare. "I say! My
eyes!"

"I say!" echoed Roy. "Why, you're as like as two peas to—"

"You're Roy Baron, as I'm alive!"

"And I declare it's Will Peirce!"

The two tongues went fast. As little boys they had played together,
romped together, worked mischief together; but for nearly five years
the two had not met.

"We weren't beaten in fair fight—don't think it," asserted Will, with
his chirrupy cheerfulness. "Got caught in a trap. Damaged in a gale off
Finisterre; and when 'twas as much as we could do to keep afloat, two
seventy-four gun frigates bore down on us. If she'd answered to her
helm, we'd have had the best of it, spite of all. But though we made a
hard fight, 'twas no go. They raked us fore and aft, and we got riddled
through and through. So we had to give in. I say, you set to work and
eat. We've got a long way to go."

Roy followed the counsel of experienced boyhood, and was the better for
food. Will's familiar face brought comfort.

On again they marched, the middies and Roy handcuffed; the sailors
chained two and two. The boys kept up a brave heart, no matter how
weary and footsore they became. Roy held out as resolutely as any one.

Later, when another halt was made, a third company awaited them. A
company of—were they prisoners? These were French faces, sullen and
downcast, with French dress. Yet they too were coupled together by
connecting chains. They too were under an escort of gendarmes.

"Are they convicts?" exclaimed Roy, and a ship-master replied, "Bless
you, no, sir. These are conscripts for the Emperor's grand Army.
Dragged from their homes, belike, without a will-he nor a nill-he, and
driven to war, like sheep to the shambles."

"Poor wretches!" remarked Will, with his experienced air. "I've seen a
lot of 'em before on our way across France."

"Sure enough, sir, and so have I. Times and again. Looking as sheepish
and as down in the mouth as a man can. Don't make much wonder, neither,
seeing they're dragged away from their homes, with never a chance of
getting off. O they'll make smart soldiers enough, I'll be bound, and
good food for shot too, with a few months of drill; and be as ready as
any Frenchman of them all to rave about 'le petit Caporal.' And the
mothers and the sweethearts may bear the parting as best they can, and
the land may go uncultivated; and what does Boney care, so long as he
has his way?"

The chained and dejected conscripts followed after the prisoners, when
the march was resumed.

Day after day, week after week, it lasted. A hundred leagues were not
to be quickly covered by a large number of men and boys of varying
powers. Many of them, used to shipboard life, were unaccustomed to long
tramps. There were tender feet and aching limbs among them; and matters
grew steadily worse. Some broke down altogether, and had to be conveyed
in rough springless carts. Those who had no money were fed mainly on
black bread and water. At night, when they halted, they were put into
the common prison of the place, no matter what kind of prison it might
be. Often they were confined in the criminal cells, suffering miseries
from heat and lack of air. Not seldom too their only couch was filthy
straw, alive with insects. Weary as Roy might be, he could not sleep
amid such surroundings.

He guarded carefully the money with which he had been abundantly
supplied by his father, not allowing others to know that he had more
than a purse of loose coins for immediate use. Impulsive Roy would
hardly have been so reticent, but for parting injunctions. Like Ivor,
he was naturally generous; and since the middies were ill supplied with
cash, he gladly shared the contents of his purse with them.

At length the long march came to an end. Bitche was reached—a grim and
solemn fortress, sheltering already hundreds of British prisoners. The
fortress was built upon a rocky height, below which lay the small town.

Upward and upward the prisoners mounted, by a sharply zigzag way,
passing one drawbridge after another, each strongly guarded. Roy and
the middies were first taken to the "Petite Tête," so-called, where
they underwent a severe searching. Roy's hidden supply of money was
detected in this operation; and though he was not deprived of it, he
knew that thenceforward the gendarmes would look upon him as their
lawful prey.

He and the middies were then led through gloomy passages, down into
the great dungeon. This, as well as the smaller dungeon, had been
originally dug out of the solid saltpetre rock, being at least thirty
feet below the surface of the ground. At first meant as a safe retreat
for the garrison during a bombardment, they had of late been used as
receptacles for English prisoners. The smaller cavern was in theory
kept for officers, the larger for private soldiers and sailors "before
the mast." But this rule was often and widely departed from, as
Roy discovered; for he with the middies was conducted to the large
souterrain.

In a huge vault, where sunlight never entered, where the dim daylight
had to be always supplemented by candles, where the atmosphere was
heavy and dank, where water dripped from the roof or ran down the
walls, might be found a motley crowd of about three hundred captives.
English soldiers, English sailors, English middies, détenus from
Verdun and elsewhere, mingled with French swindlers, pickpockets, and
highwaymen—this was the society into which Roy Baron was thrust.

With the descent down and down those stone steps, his heart sank lower
and lower. How long might he have to wait for his next glimpse of the
outside world?

An outburst of uproarious cheering greeted the new arrivals, as the
heavy door was unlocked, and they were ushered in. Three cheers were
given; then each was hoisted on the shoulders of three or four men, and
was paraded round the dungeon. After this rough welcome came a severe
blanket-tossing, which Roy and the middies were wise enough to take in
good part. Any who wished to fight were then cordially invited to do
so; and, lastly, those who had money were called upon to treat others
to drink.

Such ceremonies being ended, comparative quiet descended on the scene.
It was past eight o'clock when first they arrived, and night was near.

Roy Baron's first night in a French dungeon!

Each prisoner was provided with a worn blanket, cast off by a French
soldier. Wrapped in these, the crowd of over three hundred men and boys
laid themselves down to rest. Some slumbered silently; some tossed to
and fro; some talked or shouted in their sleep; some snored loudly.
Roy at first had rejected his ragged blanket with scorn; but these
subterranean regions were cold, and reeking with damp. Shivering, he at
length drew it round him, as he lay with arms crossed, and face pressed
into them. The handcuffs had been removed in the guard-room.

He was not thinking of the bruises he had received, when the rough
blanket-tossers had allowed him to drop upon the stone floor. Bruises
to a hardy boy are a small matter. But the desolation of the lad that
awful night went beyond bounds; and desperate blank despair took
possession of him.

For hours he hardly stirred. He could not sleep. He could only lie in
a trance of misery. He saw no gleam of hope, no chance of escape from
this terrible place. Yet, to stay on here, week after week, month after
month, perhaps year after year—could he bear it? Through all previous
troubles Roy had borne up bravely; but at last his spirit gave way
beneath the strain.

Molly's face came up before his mind. Not Molly, a sedate maiden, but
Molly the little eager child, whom he remembered. O to see her again!
Roy pressed his face closer into the folded arms.

Then his mother! He hardly dared to think of her. What would she not
suffer? Unknowing indeed what her boy had to endure, but fearing the
worst. Would any picturings of hers approach the reality?

A craving for Denham had him next in its grasp. If Denham had but been
arrested too—had but come with him! But this unworthy wish lasted not
ten seconds. Upon it followed a nobler rush of gladness that Denham was
not here. The worn face came up before Roy, as he had seen it last at
Verdun; and below his breath he sobbed in an ecstasy of thankfulness
that at least Denham would be in comparative comfort, that at least
Denham had not to be in this dungeon.

"Think how your mother will be praying for you."

Was Denham speaking? Roy seemed to hear the words, not only with his
mind, but with his bodily ears.

He sat up and looked round upon the slumbering throng—looked with
smarting eyes into the gloom. He gazed into the blackness overhead,
where a stone roof shut him pitilessly in.

Was his mother praying for him then? Would God hear her petitions?

Denham's voice, deep and quiet, seemed again to breathe around
him—"Remember! God is over all!" How long ago was it that he had said
those words? Was it—when he was ordered off to Valenciennes?

God over all! Ay, even here; even in this dungeon.

Roy dropped down again, face foremost; and through heaving sobs, not
one of which was allowed to make itself heard, he joined his prayers to
those of his mother.



CHAPTER XXV

LIFE IN A FRENCH DUNGEON

EIGHT long, long months at Bitche!

No wonder Roy Baron was altered. He had grown fast in body, faster
still in spirit. He had left Verdun a careless and light-hearted lad,
almost a child, young in all respects for his age. Eight months at
Bitche had ground every remnant of childishness out of him.

Not the whole of that time had been spent in the crowded dungeon.
The gendarmes knew better, when a prisoner possessed a little money.
For some weeks, by paying heavily, he had been permitted to occupy a
smaller room above ground, in company with a few other prisoners of
better grade. He had thankfully availed himself of the chance, and had
tried in vain to get Will brought up also. When his money ran out, and
no more arrived, he was remanded to the great dungeon.

He took it more quietly than at the first. By this time he was, in a
manner, used to close captivity. Will and the other middies welcomed
him with warmth; and he soon found that a plan for escape was brewing
among them.

No wonder prisoners sought to get away. The life in those underground
caverns must have been terrible.

From about eight at night till eight in the morning the three or four
hundred prisoners were locked up in their dungeon. At eight in the
morning they were turned out, like sheep from a pen, into the yard,
a place one hundred and thirty paces in length by about thirty in
breadth. There they stayed till noon, getting what air and exercise
they could. At noon they were mustered in the dungeon. Two or three
times a week a body of prisoners was allowed to go into the town, under
supervision, to buy food, and Roy had his turn occasionally. These
faint peeps of liberty made captivity harder to endure.

The very idea of escape from such an existence could not but be
welcomed, though every attempt to get away meant danger to life.
Many had escaped; many more were likely enough to do their best for
the same end. When Will Peirce, with the consent of his friends, and
under strictest vows of secrecy, confided to Roy their plan, Roy threw
himself into it with fervour. Anything to be free!

He stood in the prison-yard one cold day in late autumn, leaning
against the wall, with folded arms and abstracted look. A grey sky was
overhead, and some drops of half-frozen rain had fallen. Hundreds of
prisoners were assembled there: some walking about to keep themselves
warm; some leaping or wrestling; some fighting in good earnest; others
absorbed in games of chance; while many lounged listlessly, with
no spirit to exert themselves. A dull inertia, as of semi-despair,
characterised them.

Yet on the faces of a few, notably on that of Roy Baron, might have
been detected a gleam of something like hope, carefully repressed.
A blue-eyed little middy was at his side; for he and Will had drawn
together, as they seldom failed to do. Will's high spirits were as
helpful to Roy now, as Roy's in the past had been to Ivor.

About a dozen middies, besides one young Naval lieutenant and Roy
Baron, were in the plot, all sworn to secrecy. None but active and
agile young fellows could have hoped to succeed in what was proposed.

They had made a stout rope out of such materials as they were able to
get together; and their intention was to descend by means of this from
the high outer wall, which must first be scaled from within. One or two
would have to reach the top with no help from above, and, when they
were up, to lower the rope for the use of the rest. On the other side
of the wall lay fresh difficulties: sentries, perils of starvation,
dangers of being retaken, fears of worse treatment to follow. Those who
failed to get away might expect to be despatched to the fortress of
Sédan for solitary confinement. But with the hope of liberty to cheer
them on, not one of the number hesitated.

"Two days more! Only two days!" Roy was saying to himself. He hardly
dared to look up when anybody not in the secret drew near, so much he
feared to suggest by even a cheerful glance that hope had dawned.

"I know what you're thinking, Roy," muttered Will, under cover of a
noisy fight between a couple of imprisoned professional boxers.

"I'm thinking that this is an awful place."

Will drew closer, and spoke in lowered tones. "I say—don't look as if
we were saying anything particular. I say, mind we keep together. And
if—you know what I mean—"

Roy made a hasty gesture. "Then you tell my people. And if—the other
way—then I tell yours."

"Tell 'em I've tried to do my duty," said Will, as manly a note
breathing through his hushed tones as if he had measured six feet in
length. "And, Roy, tell my mother I haven't forgot what she said to me.
And I've got the Bible still; and I've said my prayers. I don't mind
telling you, because you're not the sort to jeer."

"And, Will, if it's the other way, you'll tell my people—tell 'em—"
Roy's voice faltered.

"I'll say you're as brave a chap as any officer in His Majesty's Navy.
Couldn't say more, could I?"

"Only that I've tried—that too. And tell Den I've kept my promise. It's
been hard work, but I have."

Somebody came near, and they dashed into careless talk.

Roy looked round that night with a strange moved gaze, when the bulk of
the prisoners were asleep. One night more after this—only one!—and then
away for dear old England, for the land of freedom.

He thought of Molly, and of how she would look when she saw him walk
in. He thought how glad his father and mother and Den would be, if once
they could know that their boy, Den's friend, was safe in England. Not
that Roy meant to stay at home. A little time in what now looked to him
like heaven itself, and then away to fight for his Country, to help to
overthrow the great tyrant.

It was worth while making the attempt, even though in that attempt he
should die. He was so sick and weary of this long captivity. He had
the craving of a caged bird for light and air, for exercise and active
life. At the bare notion of liberty once more, his heart danced and
sang. Then he bowed his head on his knees, and he prayed passionately
that—if only it might be—he should succeed, and should find his way
home. Home to Molly! Home to the dear old Country! The rapture of it!

"For Christ's sake, O God, let me go! Let me get away! O do not let
them take us prisoners again!" he implored.

But prayer, though heard, is not always answered in the manner wished.
And often one has to wait to know the reason.



CHAPTER XXVI

A PRISON TRAGEDY

MORNING dawned, and half of another slow day passed. Ah, how slow those
unoccupied hours were! Roy could do nothing but hang listlessly about.
He could think of nothing but the coming nightfall, when, after dark,
but before they were ordered into the souterrain for the night, he and
his companions would steal softly away to that high outer wall, and
would scale it. All details of the plan thus far had been carefully
thought out and arranged. Beyond that, most of them were trusting
largely to what is called "the chapter of accidents."

To be free again! Ah, to be free!—free under the blue sky, free to
breathe heaven's breezes, free to sun himself in heaven's smile, free
to stretch his limbs, free to be a light-hearted English boy once more
instead of a careworn man before his time! Roy flung his arms out and
clutched the prison wall, in that craving for liberty.

Midday came, and the crowd of prisoners was, as usual, ordered in. A
hand touched Roy, and a rough voice ordered him to follow.

Roy faced the gendarme.

"Where?" he demanded blankly, in a moment realising what this might
mean.

No answer was vouchsafed. These gendarmes were for the most part
surly fellows, though even among them gleams of kindness towards the
prisoners were not wholly unknown.

Roy had no choice but to obey. Resistance would have done himself no
good, and might have drawn suspicion upon his comrades. The man laid a
grip upon his arm, and led him—not down but up—past the ground floor,
ascending to the floor above. At the end of a long passage, he stopped
at a door, opened it, and thrust Roy in. The door was shut and the lock
snapped.

Roy found himself alone in a small cell, with stone floor, stone
ceiling, stone walls, one little iron-barred window, deeply embrasured,
and a single wooden bench. Beside the bench were a jug of water, a
hunch of bread, and some cheese.

Was he now condemned to solitary confinement—perhaps for weeks, perhaps
for months, perhaps for years? And for what? What had he done to bring
this upon himself?

But for the planned escape, so near at hand, he might have welcomed
almost any change from the dungeon and its horrors. Now, however, now
with freedom in sight, to be carried off, to be placed where he was, to
be debarred from every hope of liberty—it was heart-breaking.

He flung himself upon the ground, hid his face on his crossed arms, and
gave himself over to despair.

Would he never leave this awful place? Was this the way in which his
prayers and his mother's prayers were to be answered? If so, what was
the use of praying? He would give it all up. He would never pray again.
It was of no use. Nothing was of any use.

Hours passed in one long agony. All that day he was left alone. At
nightfall a gendarme brought his allowance of coarse food, and went
away. Roy drank the water, and pushed the black bread aside, too sick
with misery to eat. The boys would now be escaping. He followed in
imagination every step of theirs, envying them bitterly. That they
should be on their way to dear old England, and that he should be held
back! It was too terrible too awful! too cruel!

He had no sleep that night. He could not see the pitying angels who
hovered over him in the darkness. He could not know what was going on
in another part of the fortress. He could not guess how some of his
comrades won their freedom.

All the next morning he lay upon the ground, listless, hopeless,
careless of what might happen next.

At midday he was ordered to go down into the yard. That was the hour
when the inhabitants of the great dungeon retired into their cavern,
and when the better class of prisoners might take their turn of fresh
air—if any air could be fresh which had just been breathed by hundreds
of men. Roy wondered languidly at being treated thus. He had expected
to remain in his cell. It mattered little either way, he said to
himself, as he found his way thither. All hope for the present was at
an end.

On reaching the yard, his first impression was of an unusual gravity
among even the gravest of the prisoners there before him. One or two
half spoke to Roy, and stopped, thinking from his look that he already
knew,—that he would not be taken by surprise. And so he was allowed
to pass on, unhindered. He saw the expression in their faces, and he
wondered a little, indifferently.

Then indifference fled, and a dazed bewilderment took possession of
him. His brain swam, and he staggered to the wall, clutching it for
support, staring and shuddering.

His eyes had fallen on something unexpected—on—what was it? What could
it mean?

A row of boys lying on the ground, peacefully asleep. Ah, so
peacefully! so awfully white and still, in their brave blue uniforms,
some of them spattered with mud. But they did not seem to mind. A smile
was on one quiet face; a second wore a look of high repose; one or two
carried a defiant frown, as if at the last moment they had known what
was come to them; and another was a little grieved, but not much. And
all were free. They had won their liberty, though not the liberty for
which they had craved and striven, but doubtless a better freedom.
Only, the poor mothers of those lads, away at home, what would it have
been to them to see their boys lying here?

Roy dragged himself nearer, his heart beating in heavy strokes, while
his head seemed to be bursting open. Yes, these were the boys with whom
he was to have made his escape—some of them at least. And here was
little Will Peirce, with blue eyes fast shut, lying in the placidest
sleep, smiling to himself, in a calm waxen whiteness. He had tried to
do his duty to the last. Brave little Will!

Roy caught his breath in one hard moan of bitter pain.

"Come away," a voice said, and somebody drew him, unresisting, to the
further side of the yard. Roy vaguely knew that it was an elderly
English officer, one of the quietest and most retiring of the upstairs
prisoners, seldom heard to speak. He made Roy sit down, and as the boy
hid his face, a compassionate hand was on his wrist.

"I know, You were in the dungeon with them, I believe. Don't look any
more. No good. It's over for them."

A sound asked the question which Roy could not put into words.

"It was last night. They tried to escape over the wall. It seems to
have been planned for some time. But they were overheard and betrayed
by a fellow-prisoner. The scoundrel! They got away safely to the top
of the wall, and let down the rope. Their plan had been to descend one
by one, I believe; but they found that too slow, and time was short.
So when they had fastened the rope, they got upon it all together. A
French officer was on the watch, and he seized the moment to cut it
above. The miscreant! The hound! He'll get his deserts some day! They
all fell. Several were killed instantly,—as we see. Some, with broken
limbs, are in hospital. This is not the first time that an escape has
ended thus. The bodies are always exposed next day."

Roy shuddered.

"You may be thankful that you were not among them."

Another shudder.

The grey-haired Colonel bent gravely towards him.

"If any friend of yours is there, do not grieve too much, my boy. Some
of us might well be disposed to envy them. They are in God's Hands now,
and that is well. God is kinder far than man."

He might indeed say so, looking across the yard. Roy lifted his face,
as if in bitter protest. Was man kind, if man could do such deeds as
these? And then he thought of Ivor, of his father, of Sir John Moore.

There may be very demons in human form upon earth; yet man was made in
the Image of God; and all the kindliness that is seen in the best of
men is a glimmer of that Image.



CHAPTER XXVII

A BARRED WINDOW

How the next fortnight passed, Roy never afterwards knew. He was sick
and dazed with the shock he had had, grieving for little Will, and all
but hopeless. He had ceased to care for food; and though he dozed a
great deal, it was not restful sleep. Life seemed terribly hard to get
through. He often envied Will.

The Colonel who had spoken to him that day spoke again often, when they
met in the yard; and Roy was grateful. But he could not rouse himself.
He had lost all interest in what went on around him. He hated the yard,
and always kept as far as possible from where the exposure of the
murdered boys had taken place.

His one longing was to know how the other poor lads in the hospital
were, but accounts were unreliable.

About a fortnight later, one cold afternoon, he was leaning against
the wall at the further end, hardly thinking, only drearily enduring.
He noticed a man coming towards him carrying a large basket or hotte,
piled up with loose wood; not a gendarme, but evidently one employed
about the fortress on manual work. He was broad-shouldered and
long-limbed, and he walked in a slouching manner. At the moment that he
came close to Roy, the basket tilted over, raining the whole mass of
wood upon the ground.

"Hallo!" exclaimed Roy.

The man muttered something, and went slowly down upon his knees to pick
up the scattered wood. No one else was near. A body of prisoners had
been that morning removed elsewhere, and the yard was not so full as
usual. Roy good-naturedly bent to help the man, and their faces came
together.

"Hist!" was whispered cautiously. Roy started. "Hist!" again. "Does
monsieur know me? But not a word!"

Roy drew one quick breath. Then he tossed more bits of wood into the
hotte. He cast another glance at the man, his whole being on the alert.
In an instant he saw again the small French town, the crowd in front of
the hôtel de ville, the released conscript, the old mother clinging to
Denham's hands, and Den's pitying face.

"Jean Paulet!" he breathed.

"Oui, m'sieu. Hist!"

Jean piled some of the wood together with unnecessary noise.

"Will m'sieu not betray that he knows me?"

"Oui." Roy threw two more pieces of wood into the hotte. Then he stood
up, yawned, and gazed listlessly in another direction. After which he
hung lazily over the hotte, as if to play with the wood. A touch of
cold steel came against his left hand.

"Hist!" at the same instant, as Roy grasped the something, and slipped
it instantly out of sight. His right hand still turned over the wood.

"Bon!" murmured Jean, making a clatter. "Listen! If m'sieu will file
away the bar of his window—ready to be removed—I will be there,
outside, to-morrow night, after dark. When m'sieu hears a whistle—hist!
But truly this weight is considerable—oui, m'sieu, and a poor man like
me may not complain."

Jean hitched up the big hotte, now full, and passed on, grumbling
audibly, while Roy strolled back to his former position. His heart
was beating like a hammer, and to return to his former attitude of
dejection was not easy, with new life stirring in every vein. He
managed, however, to avoid observation, and when two o'clock came it
was a relief to be alone in his cell. He could safely there fling his
arms aloft in a frenzy of delight.

If only little Will might have escaped with him!

But there was no leisure for regrets. He had a task to accomplish in a
given time. Often he had examined the massive iron bar, wedged firmly
in across the small window. If that could be removed, he might squeeze
himself through; but to take out the bar, or at least to wrench it on
one side, meant first to file nearly through it—quite through, indeed,
for the noise of breaking it might not be risked. He could only guess
what would lie on the other side, down below. The deep embrasure
within, and the thickness of the wall without, prevented him from
seeing.

At stated intervals the gendarmes visited him, and he could reckon
upon their visits; yet he knew well that he was never secure against
a sudden interruption. He had to toil in a difficult and cramped
position, supporting himself in a corner of the slanting embrasure,
and filing very lightly, that no sound might reach the ears of any
passer-by.

[Illustration: He had to work at the bar in a difficult and cramped
position.]

One narrow escape of detection he had. Absorbed in his toil, he failed
to note the preliminary click of the lock, and the door began to open.
Roy flung himself to the ground, reckless of bruises, and the noise
of his fall was happily lost in the creak of the door. The gendarme,
entering, found a sleepy prisoner. Roy wondered that the thumping of
his heart did not betray him.

Thoughtful Jean had provided him with three files. Two of them broke.
The third held out to the end.

Through a good part of the night he worked, fearing lest the task
should not be done in time. In the morning, after the usual visit from
a gendarme, he was up again in the embrasure. Before midday he had
worked his way through the heavy bar. He stirred it cautiously. Yes, it
yielded. One good wrench, and it could be forced aside.

That was all he had now to do. The bar would remain in position till
the latest moment. He cleared away every speck of iron filing; and
then he had to go into the yard. What if the gendarmes should examine
the window during his absence? What if, before Jean came, Roy himself
should be removed elsewhere? Then came another question,—What if his
mother's prayers were being answered?

At last the afternoon had waned, without any mischance, and the
gendarme's evening call had been paid. The window had not been
examined; and Roy was left for the night, with his allowance of food.
He wisely disposed of it, knowing that he would need all his strength.
Then he waited, minute after minute, in a suspense hardly to be
described.

A slight faint whistle, close to the window.

In a moment Roy was up in the slanting embrasure. Jean's hand met his;
and together, noiselessly, they wrenched the bar aside.

"Hist! Be still as death!" whispered Jean.

Roy worked himself through the opening, Jean's grasp steadying him.
He found his feet to be resting on the topmost rung of a ladder. Jean
whispered one or two directions; then he went down himself, and held it
firm while Roy followed. Little need was there to bid the boy be quiet
in his movements. The slightest sound might betray them.

No sooner had they reached the bottom than Jean's hand gripped Roy's
wrist, and led him away. The ladder had to remain where it was. Its
removal would have meant too great a risk. Roy could not see where they
were. Pitch darkness surrounded them; but Jean moved with confidence,
though with extreme care.

Soon they had to pass near a sentry, and a sharp challenge was heard.
Roy's heart leaped into his mouth; and Jean promptly replied with the
password for the night. Veiled by the darkness, they went by in safety.

At length the outer wall was gained—that same wall which the middies
had reached in their attempted escape, though at a different part of
it. Jean had chosen this mode of escape, not daring to take Roy under
the eyes of sentries at the gates, where, despite his command of the
password, the prisoner would almost certainly have been found out.

In a quiet corner, where nobody seemed to be near, Jean drew down
the end of a stout rope, already secured at the top of the wall, and
knotted loosely out of easy reach. This had been his doing after dark,
before he went to Roy's cell. With the help of the rope they made
their way to the top, Roy first, Jean next, pulling it after them, and
lowering it on the other side. Then together they trusted their weight
to it.

As they hung over the depth, Roy recalled the cold-blooded act of two
or three weeks earlier. If any man had obtained an inkling of Jean's
intentions, or had discovered the rope, the same tragedy might now be
repeated on a smaller scale. One clear cut would do the business. He
and Jean would fall heavily downward; and in an instant he too, like
Will, might be in that Land where dungeons and cruel separations are
things of the past.

These thoughts came to Roy unbidden, even while his whole attention
was bent to the task of working himself hand under hand, swiftly and
noiselessly, down the rope. Already his hands were torn and strained,
yet under the excitement of the moment he felt no pain.

The rope remained taut. There was no sudden yielding from above, no
helpless plunge earthward. He and Jean arrived in safety on firm ground.

Again Jean gripped his wrist. "Now, m'sieu—hist!" was whispered. As
fast as might be, yet with extreme caution, they hurried away from that
grim surrounding wall.

Roy could not see where they were in the darkness. He could only trust
himself blindly to Jean's guidance, and Jean seemed to know well what
he was doing.

During the first half-hour or so, excessive caution was needful; and
more than once Jean had to make use of the password, which he had
somehow learned. Once well away from Bitche, discovery became a less
imminent danger. The chief aim then was to put as wide a space as
possible between themselves and the fortress before morning. That was
as much as Roy had in mind. Jean's object was more definite. But for a
while he attempted no explanations. All breath was required for getting
along.

So soon as Roy's disappearance should become known, the gendarmes would
be off in hot pursuit. At present they had a clear field, favoured by
darkness and by the fact of a world mainly asleep.

Roy's powers were severely taxed, as the hours of that night went by.
Excitement kept him going; but he had slept and eaten little during the
past thirty hours, and after eight months without proper exercise he
was direfully out of training. His muscles had grown flabby, and he so
soon began to pant, as to become angry with himself. Still, he fought
doggedly onward, making no complaint.

At first they followed bypaths or kept to fields, for greater safety;
but by and by Jean struck into the highroad, and here advance was
easier.

As hour passed after hour, and they made uninterrupted progress, Roy
grew light of heart. Breathlessness, aching limbs, sharp cold, gnawing
hunger—all these were as nothing, compared with the fact that he was
free. No stone walls, no iron-bound and padlocked doors, shut him
ruthlessly in.

From time to time a short halt was necessary, and Roy was allowed to
fling himself flat on the icy ground for some minutes; after which he
could always start afresh with redoubled energy.

"Wonder what happened to take you to Bitche, Jean?" he said after one
such break.

"M'sieu, I had a friend at Bitche."

"Somebody in the fortress?"

"Oui, m'sieu. Un soldat. M'sieu will perhaps refrain from putting
many questions. It is a friend from my boyhood. He was taken in the
conscription, and no kind messieurs were at hand to help to buy
him off. And his poor mother became imbecile. La pauvre femme! See
what might have come to my mother also, but for the goodness of ces
messieurs."

"She became imbecile because he had to go to the war?"

"Oui, m'sieu. What wonder? For see—it was not a common parting.
Hundreds, thousands, go thus in the armies of the Emperor, and never
return. They vanish from their homes, and no more is heard of them.
Here or there, far-away, they have died and have been buried—hélas!—and
that is the end."

"A soldier's end!" the boy said proudly.

"Oui, m'sieu, sans doute. But not all men have a taste for soldiering.
I myself, for one—"

"You didn't want to fight?"

"I had no wish to leave my home, m'sieu. Of late, it is true, I have
had thoughts of entering the army, after all. Le petit Caporal is no
such bad leader for a man to follow, when he has not ties to bind him
down."

"But your mother—what would she say?"

"M'sieu, I should not be leaving my mother. It is she who has left me.
Le bon Dieu has called her away to another place."

Roy gave a glance of sympathy, which he could not well put into words.

"But to the last she had her Jean. She did not die alone, forsaken and
desolate. For that I shall be eternally grateful to ces messieurs—that
her last days were in peace."

"I remember now, Jean, you said you would like some day to do something
for my father and for Captain Ivor. And this is for them. If they could
thank you—"

"M'sieu, if I could thank them—!" interjected Jean. Then again they
pressed on in silence. Morning had begun to break, and they plodded
forward still. Roy had pleaded for another halt, for the boy was almost
at the end of his powers, but Jean refused.

"Courage, m'sieu, courage. But a little further, and we will rest. To
stop here, if the gendarmes come, would be fatal. See, the day dawns,
and soon they will scour the country round. Courage! A little further
yet."

"All right," panted Roy, dragging along his leaden-weighted limbs.
"Shall we hide all day?"

"Mais, oui. A little cottage in a wood belongs to a friend of mine, and
he has made ready for us. Once there, all will be well. The danger now
increases each minute. Can m'sieu increase his speed? M'sieu will soon
be able to rest. At nightfall we shall start again, refreshed."

"Will you come with me still? Jean, you are a good fellow!" gasped Roy.

"If I can see m'sieu safe off French ground, then I will let ces
messieurs at Verdun know, and it will gladden their hearts."

A few minutes later they entered a wood, and Jean's look of anxiety
lessened as the trees closed around them. He consented to a slight
relaxation of their speed, though reiterating his "Courage, m'sieu! The
worst is done."



CHAPTER XXVIII

MOST FRIENDLY OF FRENCHMEN

"BUT what made you think of coming to Bitche at all?" asked Roy
presently, as he struggled on.

"M'sieu will not ask too many questions? No one at Bitche knew that I
had a friend there."

"You don't think I'd betray you, Jean—even if we were retaken? And I
hope I'm not going to be."

"The good God grant it, m'sieu."

"How did you know that I was there? Who told you?"

"M'sieu, it was a young lady, not English, who lives under the same
roof with m'sieu's friends."

"Mademoiselle de St. Roques?"

"M'sieu has the name—precisely. It was at St. Mihiel."

"I know. We drove there once to see the place."

"Naturellement. St. Mihiel is but seven leagues from Verdun.
Mademoiselle de St. Roques had some affair in the place, and she was
there for a few days. We chanced to meet—it matters not how,—and when
I learned that she was from Verdun, I asked her had she seen M. le
Colonel and the tall M. le Capitaine, and the young gentleman with
them. Then I found that she knew them all well. And she told me of
m'sieu being at Bitche, and the great trouble that it was to those
others."

"Did she say—were they all well, Jean?"

Jean answered this question reservedly. M. le Capitaine had been ill,
but Mademoiselle had said that it would doubtless make him well, could
he but hear good news of the young gentleman at Bitche. Then Jean had
offered to go himself to Bitche, and to find out what he might. And the
good demoiselle had emptied her pocket of all the money that she had,
to enable Jean to go the more quickly.

"And I thought, m'sieu, if I could but compass m'sieu's escape from
that terrible Bitche, and might take word that he had gone to England,
then Monsieur le Capitaine would have a light heart, and would grow
strong once more."

"Jean, you're the best fellow that ever was! Won't they be glad!"
panted Roy.

And at length their destination was reached.

On the edge of a little clearing, in the centre of the wood, stood
a small charcoal-burner's cottage, built of stone. Near behind it
might be seen a good-sized outhouse or woodhouse; and on one side was
the pile of slowly burning charcoal. Round and about were heaps of
unsightly rubbish and of blackened moss.

Nobody seemed to be at hand. Jean opened the door, and when they were
within he bolted it. Roy flung himself upon a small bench, glad to get
his breath; while Jean went to a corner, struck a light with flint and
steel, and made a dip to burn. The one window was closely shuttered.

"Are we to stop here?" asked Roy. "But if the gendarmes come?"

"We must circumvent them, m'sieu."

Jean produced a blouse, such as would be worn by a French labouring
lad, with shirt and trousers to match. "M'sieu must change his clothes."

"All right," assented Roy. He stood up, though the cottage was swimming
and his ears were buzzing with fatigue, and promptly divested himself
of what he wore, to assume a different guise. Jean then brought a small
bottle of dark liquid, which he mixed with water, and dyed Roy's hair
and eyebrows, thereby altering his look to such an extent that his
own mother might have passed him by. Roy laughed so much under this
operation as to discompose the operator.

"Tenez, m'sieu! Taisez-vous donc, s'il vous plait! I assure monsieur it
is no matter for laughter."

"If you knew what it was to be free again, you'd laugh too," declared
Roy. His merriment passed into a yawn. "But I'm awfully sleepy."

"Monsieur is hungry too."

Monsieur undoubtedly was, though the craving to lie down was the
stronger sensation. Jean handed him a hunch of bread and cheese and
a glass of milk; and while Roy was busy with the same, he proceeded
to array himself in holiday costume. He donned an old and shabby but
once gorgeous coat, with stand-up collar and gay buttons, which, as he
informed Roy, had many long years before been the best holiday coat of
his esteemed grandfather.

"I go to the wedding of my niece," he remarked, with so much
satisfaction that, for a moment, Roy really thought he meant it. "Does
monsieur perceive? And monsieur will be the boy Joseph, who goes with
me in the little cart."

"But where is the cart?"

"All in good time, m'sieu."

Jean rolled the discarded clothes into a bundle, with which he
disappeared. Roy conjectured that he might have buried it in the bushes
or under heaps of black rubbish outside. Jean then led him into the
outhouse, which was more than two-thirds full of heavy logs and fagots
of wood—the winter supply, piled together.

"Am I to get underneath all that, Jean?"

"Oui, m'sieu. The gendarmes will not readily find you there. I
meanwhile betake myself to the soupente."

The soupente in a French cottage is a kind of upper cupboard, a small
corner cut off from the one room, near the ceiling, descending only
half-way to the ground, and reached by a ladder.

"And if they find you there?"

"M'sieu, they will not know me in this dress. See—I am not the Jean who
chopped wood at Bitche. And I hope then to draw their attention from
m'sieu."

Roy wrung his hand. "I don't know what makes you so good to me," the
boy said huskily.

"It is not difficult to tell m'sieu why." Jean looked abstractedly
at the roof of the wood-hut. "It is for the sake of that kind M. le
Capitaine, who would not leave my mother unhappy. Does m'sieu remember
how M. le Capitaine regarded my mother that day?"

Roy remembered, and understood.

Jean hauled aside logs and masses of wood, making a little cave far
back, where Roy could creep in and lie close to the wall. Jean wrapped
round him an old coat, for warmth, and, when he had laid himself down,
threw light black rubbish over him as an additional security. After
which he carefully heaped up anew the logs and fagots, till not the
faintest sign remained of any human being beneath.

"M'sieu must lie still," Jean said, when he had effaced every token
that the wood-pile had been disturbed. "On no account must m'sieu move
or speak. If by chance I should have to go away, m'sieu must wait till
nightfall, when the cart will come to take m'sieu on his way."

"But, I say, Jean, you mustn't get into trouble for me," called Roy,
his voice sounding muffled.

"Bien, m'sieu. Trust Jean to do his best. Can m'sieu breathe?"

"Rather stuffy, but it's all right."

"Au revoir, m'sieu. I go to the soupente."

Then silence. Jean returned to the cottage, where he rinsed the basin
which had been used for dyeing purposes, put things straight, unbolted
the front door, and climbed into the soupente, drawing the ladder after
him. There he laid himself flat, and was, or pretended to be, sound
asleep.

Roy's sleep was no pretence. Despite his hard bed and the stuffiness of
the air which he had to breathe, despite fear of gendarmes and risks of
discovery, he forgot himself for a couple of hours.

Something roused him then. In a moment he was wide awake, his heart
thumping unpleasantly against his side. The gendarmes had come!

Roy could see nothing; he could only hear; and he heard more than might
have been expected from his position. The men made a good deal of
noise, after the manner of gendarmes; and Roy's senses were quickened
by the exigency of the moment.

First they went into the cottage, finding the door on the latch, which
fact allayed their suspicions, as Jean had intended. They marched
round the room, knocking things about a little; and one of them took a
good look at the soupente. But not seeing the ladder, and not really
suspecting the fugitives of being here, he did not trouble himself
further.

Then they walked to the bûcher. One gendarme knocked down a few fagots,
and another pulled at a log. To Roy it sounded as if they were making
their way into where he lay. But after what he felt to be a century of
suspense, they left the outhouse. He heard them mount their horses and
trot off.

"Safe!" murmured Roy, and in his heart was a fervent "Thank God!"

Presently he dropped asleep again, and knew no more for hours. When he
woke he had the consciousness, which one often has after long sleep, of
a considerable time having passed; yet whether it was now morning or
afternoon or evening he could not tell. To sleep more was not possible.
He was growing frightfully weary of his constrained position. A voice
at length sounded near.

"M'sieu!"

"All right," called Roy.

"Can m'sieu wait a little longer? It is not safe to move till after
dark."

"I'll wait, Jean. Only, as soon as you can, please."

The wisdom of Jean's caution became evident. Before darkness settled
down, the same party of gendarmes galloped up once more. As before,
they walked through cottage and shed, kicking the furniture about,
knocking down some logs, and using rough language about the escaped
prisoner, which boded no gentle treatment for Roy, should he fall into
their clutches. But the search was perfunctory, and soon they vanished,
silence following their departure.

One more hour Roy had to endure. Then came the welcome sound of Jean
removing the wood-piles.

"Can m'sieu stand?"

Roy crept out, made the attempt, and fell flat. Jean pulled him up, and
held him on his feet.

"I'm only stiff," declared Roy. "They won't come again now, I suppose.
And they didn't find you?"

"Non, m'sieu. I was in the wood this last time."

"It is night, I declare! Now I can walk," and Roy managed to reach the
cottage on his own limbs. "What a long day it has been! But as if that
mattered—as if anything mattered—only to get away safely! Jean, you are
a good fellow. Is this for me to eat? I'm as hungry as a bear. Jean, I
shall always think better of Frenchmen for your sake."

"Yet m'sieu will doubtless fight us one day."

"I shall fight Buonaparte. Not the French nation. I like some of your
people awfully. Lots of French have been as good and kind to us détenus
as possible. Only I don't like Boney."

"Cependant, m'sieu, the Army of the Emperor is made of French soldiers."

"Can't help that," retorted Roy. "And they can't help it either, poor
fellows! I say, this cheese is uncommonly good. How did you manage to
hide it from the gendarmes? Jean, were you long at Bitche? Tell me all
about it."

Jean evidently preferred not to enter into details. It was better for
Roy's own sake that he should not know too much.

It appeared, however, that on Jean's arrival at Bitche he had found
one of the gendarmes to be an old acquaintance; and through this man
he had obtained a temporary post in the fortress. A man who did rough
work, such as chopping and carrying wood, had fallen ill; and Jean was
allowed to undertake his duties.

This gave him an opportunity to study the fortress, to make himself
acquainted with the surrounding country, and to mature his plans. How
far his friend had a hand in the matter, he did not reveal. He had
held carefully aloof from Roy himself, till matters were ripe. Then he
contrived to be sent into the yard, just at the right time. The rest
Roy knew.

"Why was I put into that cell?" asked Roy.

"M'sieu, there were doubtless reasons. It is sometimes best that one
should not understand everything," meditatively observed Jean. "What
if—perhaps—somebody had known of the intended escape, and had tried by
such means to save m'sieu from danger?"

"Was it you, Jean?"

"Non, m'sieu." But whether Jean spoke the truth, whether he might or
might not have had a hand in the wirepulling which had led to that
event, Roy could not know. He had but to be thankful that he was free.

After darkness had some time set in, a rough little cart, drawn by a
rough little pony, and driven by a charcoal-burner, came to the door.
Then he and Jean started, taking with them a small lantern.

The next stage of the journey meant quicker and easier advance than
that of the previous night. The pony was strong and willing; and all
through the hours of darkness they were getting further and further
away from Bitche. By dawn of day the fear of pursuit was immensely
lessened. Even if the gendarmes had overtaken them, they would hardly
have suspected the odd figure in a smart old coat and ancient cocked
hat to be the temporary wood-chopper at Bitche, or the black-haired boy
in a rough blouse to be their prisoner, Roy Baron.

For greater safety, both that day and next, they found a retired spot
in which to hide, letting the pony loose to browse on some rough
ground, or putting up it and the cart at a wayside inn, and calling
there later. One way and another the dreaded pursuit was eluded; and as
day after day went by, Roy felt himself indeed nearer home.



CHAPTER XXIX

THE DEAR OLD COUNTRY

THE month of April, 1808, saw Polly and Molly again in London; not this
time for the enjoyment of gay assemblies. Old Mrs. Fairbank, after
many months of gradual failure, had passed away in an acute attack of
bronchitis; and Mrs. Bryce immediately offered a home to the two girls,
until at least it might be possible to know the wishes of Colonel Baron
and his wife. Though Mr. Bryce, as usual, only had to assent to his
"better half's" proposition, he did so with a heartiness not shown
towards every wish of hers.

So the Bath house, with its quaint furniture, was let; and in the end
of March, after a few weeks given to necessary arrangements, the two
girls found themselves once more under Mr. and Mrs. Bryce's hospitable
roof.

A double bedroom, opening into a small sitting-room or boudoir, was
given to them; and here they loved to pass much of their time. Mrs.
Bryce was now in a full swing of engagements; and she would greatly
have liked to take Polly with her wherever she went, despite the recent
death of Polly's grandmother, but for Polly's resistance.

"Well, well, well, my dear; all in good time," Mrs. Bryce said, after
some discussion. "To be sure, the old lady was tolerable close related,
and there's no doubt your feelings does you credit. But I can assure
you, 'tis time you was settled in life, with a husband of your own,
and a ménage, and a suitable equipage, and the rest of it. And as for
Captain Ivor—I protest I've no sort of Patience with the man. Why, 'tis
eighteen months at the least since ever a word reached us of Captain
Ivor and his doings. And by this time there's no sort of question that
he's forgot all about you, and has found himself a wife, and belike
he's been married this year past and more. So 'tis good time you too
should forget all about him."

Polly was thinking over these utterances, as she sat before the
drawing-room fire, robed in white muslin, with black sash and ribbons.
In the first decade of the nineteenth century, muslin was counted to be
the correct dress for a girl, morning and noon and evening, summer and
winter, no matter what the weather might be. Polly looked rather blue
and chilly, with her bare arms and shoulders, the latter covered but
lightly with a thin black crape scarf.

She was as pretty as ever; but her colouring was less brilliant than of
old, while the sweet eyes held a touch of melancholy. Molly, dressed to
match, though with white ribbons instead of black, was busily reading
to herself on the other side of the fireplace.

It was a cold April afternoon, five o'clock dinner being over. Mr. and
Mrs. Bryce were out on one of their innumerable engagements. Mr. Bryce,
poor man, would greatly have preferred a quiet evening at home with the
girls to the most brilliant gathering; but his relentless wife dragged
him in her wake, an unwilling and helpless victim, to dinner-parties,
balls, crushes, routs, innumerable.

"Molly, the Admiral is at home again. 'Tis a fit of the gout, Mrs.
Peirce tells me. I saw her to-day; and she is vexed, for it makes him
roar like a wild beast. And though 'tis doubtless true, as the faculty
say, that the gout sets a man up again, yet the setting up is by no
means pleasant. And Mrs. Peirce and the Admiral are sorely troubled
about Will; for since he was taken prisoner, all that long while ago,
never a word has reached them about him. O this weary war!"

Molly murmured one or two indistinct responses to the early part of
Polly's speech. The last four words made her look up. Then she stepped
across, kissed Polly's brow tenderly, and went back to her seat.

"What is it you are reading, Molly?"

"The 'Edinburgh Review' for this month. An article on 'Marmion.' And
Polly—would you think it?—the Editor has no appreciation for our great
poet's genius! No; none whatever. He writes—he writes as if Mr. Scott
were but a common man, like any other sort of scribbler—and not the
mighty world-wide genius that he is."

"Would that be a paper by Mr. Jeffrey? But he knows Mr. Scott. The two
are friends. Can he find it in his heart to blame his friend? And what
may he see to find fault with?"

"What indeed?" echoed eager Molly. "Do but hear? He says it is 'a
good deal longer' than the last poem—'more ambitious,' with 'greater
faults' and 'greater beauties,' 'less sweetness,' 'more vehemence,'
'redundancy,' and a 'general tone of spirit and animation, unchecked
by timidity or affectation, and unchastened by any great delicacy of
taste or elegance of fancy.' Oh!" cried indignant Molly, "to think
that any critic can be so blinded by prejudice! There have been poets,
'tis true, before this; but none, sure, to compare with the author of
'Marmion!' Why, what were Homer and Milton—what are those old plays by
Mr. William Shakespeare, which Mr. Bryce loves to read—compared with
the poetical writings of Mr. Scott? I have a mind never to read the
'Edinburgh Review' again." Molly flung it to the ground.

"A young man desires to speak with Miss Baron." The butler's solemn
voice came as a surprise.

"His name, Drake?" asked Polly.

"The young man refuses to give his name, Miss."

"Then what does he want?"

"He says that Miss Baron will know him. He—in fact he declines to be
refused, Miss. But if it is your wish that he be sent away—"

"You must make him say what he wants, Drake."

"Is he a gentleman?" asked Molly.

"He—" and a pause—"is extremely shabby, Miss."

"What are we to do, Polly?"

"If Miss Keene desires that he should—"

Drake advanced no further. Somebody from behind put him on one side,
with a gentle shove, and walked past him, straight into the room.

Drake was indignant, yet not so indignant as he ought to have been.
A certain vague influence, which he afterwards declared to have been
an instinctive knowledge of the truth, withheld him from any show
of wrath. The young man came quickly nearer to where the two girls
sat. He was of good medium height, with a boyish look; and he wore a
rough travel-stained coat, ill-made and ill-fitting. His boots were
cut through, his trousers were soiled, his hair was of an odd mottled
colour, as if it had once been dark and were turning fair. But—

"You ask to know what I want," he said, in a half-laughing voice. A
pair of large grey eyes were turned full upon them both. "I want—Molly!"

Molly did not shriek, did not even exclaim. It was Polly who cried out
in astonishment; not Molly. Nor did Molly hesitate for one quarter of a
second. As she met Roy's glance, she was in his arms, clinging to him
in a voiceless rapture. Neither of the two spoke. Roy stood perfectly
still, his head bent low over the faithful little sister, who held
him fast in a vehement clutch of joy. Drake came some steps nearer,
understanding, yet scarcely able to believe what his own sight told
him. Polly stood gazing at the pair, her eyes full of tears.

"I'm not fit to be touched," Roy said at length, in an odd husky voice.
"Don't, Molly! I shall spoil your nice things. I've been on the tramp."

She half loosened him, then returned to the charge with another
passionate clasp; and Polly's tears now were running down her cheeks.
Roy broke into an odd hard sound, not far removed from a sob, though he
tried to turn it into a laugh; and he kissed and kissed again the top
of Molly's head. Her face was out of reach, buried in his rough coat.

Polly pulled one of Molly's hands, trying to wrench asunder that
frantic hold.

"Dear Molly, you must not. Roy is tired and hungry. Try to think of
him. He wants food. And he has not said one word to me yet." Polly
dashed aside her tears, trying to smile. "How did you get away from
Verdun, Roy?"

"Not Verdun. Didn't you know I'd been sent to Bitche last spring?"

"No. Were you really? Bitche! Isn't that where prisoners are said to be
so badly treated? O we hear so little!" and a sigh came from Polly's
heart, while Molly, having pulled Roy into a chair, knelt by his side,
gazing with eyes of rapt delight into his face.

"Rather! yes. I got away from there. I'll tell you all about it
presently. It's all right, now I'm back in old England. Do you know,
when first I got on shore, I just went down on my knees, and kissed
the ground. Bitche is an awful place,—couldn't well be worse. Drake,
you didn't know me. For shame! But I was sure Miss Molly would. I knew
she'd never be taken in. Eh, Molly?"

"I don't know as I didn't, sir, for all you're so growed and altered.
I couldn't turn you away, and that's a fact, though it seemed like as
if I'd ought. And I did feel queer-like, and no mistake, when I see you
a-looking at me, sir; only begging your pardon, sir, you did speak so
short—"

"I'm sorry; but I didn't mean to be found out by anybody first, except
by Miss Molly. Dear little Molly!" as she stooped to kiss the back of
his brown hand. "No, no, you mustn't do that. I say, Drake, I wonder
if you can find anything respectable for me to wear. These things were
given me at a farmhouse in France, and they were old to begin with. And
I've had to get to London on the tramp, because I'd no money, though
people have given me many a lift, and shelter as well. But couldn't you
make me look decent, before Mr. and Mrs. Bryce come home?"

Drake made no difficulty about the matter, and he and Roy, after a few
more explanations, went off together. Roy had seen in an old newspaper,
since landing on the east coast, the mention of Mrs. Fairbank's death;
and he had at once decided to find his way straight to the house of Mr.
Bryce, secure of learning what might have become of Polly and Molly. He
had hardly felt surprise, on arrival, to learn that both the girls were
there. Another sadder duty would lie before him soon—to see Admiral and
Mrs. Peirce, and to tell them the story of little Will. But his first
aim had been to reach Molly.

As the two disappeared, Molly flung herself on the rug, with her face
on Polly's knees.

"To think that I have my own Roy again!" she whispered.

"Dear Molly, 'tis something indeed to be thankful for!" A tear splashed
on Molly's cheek. She looked up with startled eyes.

"Ah, I forgot! If Denham could but have come with Roy! Then we should
both be happy, we should want nothing. Except—for my papa and my mamma
to return."

Another tear fell.

"But we will ask Roy, and he will tell us about Denham. Perhaps he will
have brought you a message from him."

"No," answered Polly. "Roy comes from Bitche, not from Verdun. 'Tis a
great while since he saw them. And, Molly, you must not ask."

"Not ask!"

"Not for me. Nothing for me. How can I tell now,—so long as it is since
any letter came? And no message, none at all, in the last that did
come. Do you not see?"

"You mean—But Polly, you do not think Denham has changed towards you?
He cannot have done so."

"I cannot tell. It may be. I am a woman, dear, and I may not be sure,
without reason. In my heart, I think I do trust him. And if Roy
tells—but you must not ask for me."

"Not even how Denham is?"

"Yes; that for yourself. But nothing for me."

A very different Roy soon appeared, dressed in a castoff suit of Mr.
Bryce's, which, though it was by no means a perfect fit, since Roy was
markedly the taller, yet shone by comparison with what he had worn
before. Roy had grown very brown during his prolonged wanderings; and
the dye, which it had been thought advisable to keep going so long as
he remained on French soil, was still en evidence. But the face and the
grey eyes were unmistakable. They had been unmistakable to Molly from
the moment she saw him.

An abundant dinner, hastily heated and brought together, awaited him
soon in the dining-room; and Roy confessed to a "wolfish" appetite.
Molly said nothing then in allusion to Ivor. She knew that Polly would
wish the subject to be avoided while Drake was present, and Drake took
care to be present throughout the meal. He would not lose a single word
of Roy's narration of the escape from Bitche, and the journey through
France. That any Frenchman should have acted as Jean had acted, came
as a positive shock to the insular prejudices of the old butler. Drake
arrived at a solemn conclusion, while he listened, that some among
those Mounseers over the water were not perhaps altogether bad, even
though they lacked the advantages of an English "eddication."

But when dinner was over, when Roy's wants were satisfied, and when the
three were together in the drawing-room, Roy in a comfortable chair,
with Molly close to his side, Polly herself remarked quietly—

"And now Roy will tell us all about them at Verdun."

"Haven't seen 'em lately, you know, Polly. I wish I had. The latest
news I can give you is near a year old. No, not quite the latest,
but—Well, I left my father and mother all right at Verdun, last spring.
Not much less than a year. Denham had been away at Valenciennes for,
eighteen months. You must have heard that."

"One letter from your mother, which had been long on the road, spoke of
his having been there. But no explanation. We thought he had perhaps
gone thither for a few weeks."

"Eighteen months. Ordered off for nothing, and brought back in the same
fashion. He got to Verdun the very day before I broke that bust, and
was arrested. You know—I told you."

"Then you have not seen anything of Denham for an age?" Molly asked
this.

"Pretty near two years and a half, except that one day."

"And they were all well?" Polly said.

Roy looked intently at her. Polly flushed faintly.

"Yes, I know—of course you want to hear of anything that he said. I'm
trying to remember. Such a lot happened then, and I've gone through so
much since. But I don't think he said much of any sort. You see he had
walked the whole way from Valenciennes, giving up his horse to a man
worse than himself. And he was too thoroughly dead-beat to do more than
just answer questions."

Polly had turned her face away. Roy whispered, "I say, Molly, one
minute,—I want a word with her."

Molly obediently fled, and Roy crossed the rug. As he expected, there
were tears upon Polly's cheek.

"Polly, I want you to understand."

A hasty movement disposed of the tears, and she turned a quiet face
towards him. "I think I do."

"Den is not the man to change."

"Many men do—"

"Not Den. He's not that sort."

She smiled a little. "My dear Roy, you have not seen him, except for
one day, since—how long ago?"

"Yes, I know. But boys have eyes as well as girls. And I tell
you, Polly, I know Denham. That year and a half before he went to
Valenciennes he and I were always together. And I got to know him
as—well, as nobody else does. Not even you."

She rested her chin on one hand, the soft eyes questioning Roy.

"Go on," she whispered.

"I know Den, and because I know him, I can tell you that he has not
altered, and that he won't alter. It isn't in him. It doesn't make a
grain of difference whether he talked or didn't talk of you that day.
He was too ill; and Den doesn't talk, you know, of the things he cares
most about. You ought to understand what he feels about Sir John Moore,
for instance, and yet how few would guess it! Does he ever say a great
deal about Sir John to people in general? And has he ever changed in
that direction? No, nor ever will."

"He has a warm advocate in you."

"Because I know what he is. He didn't talk much of you, Polly, that
year and a half that we were together. And I was only a boy, but all
the same I understood. If anybody ever spoke your name, didn't I see
his look? Just as I always saw the look in his face if anybody spoke of
Sir John."

Polly brushed her hand over wet eyes.

"Sometimes I used to know that he was thinking of you all day long.
How did I know? I can't tell. How does anybody know? It was just as if
'Polly' was writ large upon his face. I never could tell what made him
so, only for hours he seemed to be away from us all, and 'twas little
good for me to talk, for he heard scarce anything I might say."

Roy's coat-sleeve received a little squeeze. "But—so long ago!"

"What does that matter? You ought to feel sure of him. I'm not making
up. Den is one of the best and truest fellows that ever lived, and when
he comes home you'll see. You'll see for yourself."

She bent her head.

"Thank you, Roy. At the least I can promise to do one thing. I can wait
to see."



CHAPTER XXX

SIR JOHN MOORE

So soon as the first excitement of Roy's arrival began to subside, his
thoughts turned in the old direction, towards the Army.

Mr. Bryce took upon himself to act as he knew that the Colonel would
have acted if able; and a brief space of time saw Roy being transformed
into a smart young subaltern, in the same regiment of infantry where
Jack had lately obtained his Captaincy.

"And now," Roy said, not once but a dozen times, to Molly, "the one
thing in the world I want is to serve under Moore!"

"Are you in such a hurry to go away from us again?" Molly asked
wistfully. But she understood, as she would not have understood five
years earlier, and before Roy could speak she added,—"I know. Of course
you can't help it. You must wish to go! Only I hope you won't stay away
too long."

"We've got to squash Napoleon before anybody can think of stopping at
home."

In the beginning of this year, 1808, Moore had returned to England from
the Mediterranean, after an absence of nearly two years. Then he had
his last holiday. Four months of rest were granted to the hard-worked
warrior, who during thirty years had held himself at his Country's
service, fighting for her in all parts of the world, and being at
least four times severely wounded. At this date he was looked upon by
competent judges as the foremost man in the British Army, as the one to
whom, above all others, England in her hour of need would turn.

The chief part of his holiday was spent at the quiet Surrey home of
his brother, with his mother and sister; and one is glad to know that
he had that peaceful interlude before the stormy end. He had had much
to try him, and he had gone through heavy battling of more than one
description when out in Sicily.

It was during his time there, when acting second in command to old
General Fox, brother of Mr. Charles Fox, Prime Minister of England,
that the one love affair of Moore came about. The little tale is worth
telling, though apart from the course of this story, for it says much
as to the character of Moore.

Several times the assertion has been made that Sir John Moore was
engaged to Lady Hester Stanhope, niece of Mr. Pitt. This is a mistake.
Lady Hester was his friend, and he admired her greatly; but it was as
a friend only, not as a lover. On the conclusive authority of General
Anderson, who for twenty-one years was with him in the closest possible
intercourse, there was but one whom Moore ever seriously wished to
marry. That one was—not Lady Hester, but Caroline Fox, daughter of the
old General in command at Sicily.

That the niece of Mr. Pitt should have been his most intimate
woman-friend, and the niece of Mr. Fox his one and only love, reads
curiously in the light of party politics. But Sir John was no party
man. The great Minister, Pitt, had for him an unbounded esteem and
affection on the one side. And Mr. Fox, on the other, at a time when a
movement was astir to make Moore Commander-in-Chief in India, utterly
refused to allow him to go. "It was impossible for him," he said,
"in the state in which Europe then was, to send to such a distance a
General in whom he had such entire confidence." Moore stood outside
political warfare, grandly and simply, as representative of his Country.

He had many troubles in Sicily. The object of the British forces
being there was to save the Sicilies from the grip of Napoleon. But
the tortuous policy of their Sicilian Majesties, the entire lack of
honesty and of public spirit, the underhand cabals and oppositions,
the weakness and wickedness of the Queen, and the mischief made by one
Englishman there, who acted throughout as Sir John's enemy, hindered
far more from being done than was done.

Amid all this, however—amid the fighting, the difficulties, the
trickeries, the entanglements of Sicilian politics and warfare, Moore
fell deeply in love. But he did not marry. He did not even let the girl
know that he loved her.

Caroline Fox was very young, not yet eighteen. Moore was already in his
forty-sixth year. He did not think it right, at her age, even to give
her the choice.

Whether this decision was in the abstract wise, some may question. It
is at least conceivable that Caroline Fox herself was already in love
with him. Had she been so, it would indeed have been sad that, from a
noble sense of duty, he should have denied happiness to her as well as
to himself. True, he had not sought her; but he was intimate in the
house, and he was a man of extraordinarily attractive power. In such a
case it does seem, from the woman's point of view, that she ought to
have been allowed to say for herself either Yea or Nay.

That view does not detract from the admiration which his conduct must
arouse. Sir John was not of a nature to love lightly, to give up his
wishes easily. It was a hard fight. Harder far this conflict than all
his battles with the soldiers of Napoleon.

Yet he conquered; and to the young girl herself he said not one word
which might have encouraged her affections. To Anderson he explained
his reasons with a frank and touching simplicity, the echo of which
comes down to us now through ninety years and more.

"She is so young," he said. "Her judgment may be overpowered. The
disparity of age is not, perhaps, at present very apparent. My position
here, my reputation as a soldier of service, and my intimacy with her
father, may influence her to an irretrievable error for her own future
contentment. My feelings, therefore, must be suppressed, that she may
not have to suppress hers hereafter, with loss of happiness."

Can anything surpass the quiet grandeur of that must?

He was a man in the prime of life, eminently handsome, accomplished,
fascinating, the idol of his friends, the darling of his country, with
every hope of a splendid career still before him. That such a man,
when profoundly in love, should pause to view the question solely with
respect to the girl's happiness, not his own—that he should humbly
question whether, though he might win her, she might not in after years
regret her action and wish herself free;—this, no doubt, is such a
hero as has often figured in fiction. Quite an ideal hero! So some may
object.

But the whole is true. There is no idealising in the question. John
Moore, actually and literally, less than one hundred years ago, loved
and decided thus. The grandeur of this man was that he thought always
of others before himself, that he lived for duty. Where duty pointed
or seemed to point down a pathway, no matter how hard and thorny the
road, there unhesitatingly he walked. Questions as to the wisdom of his
decision do not touch the splendour of his self-sacrificing conduct.

He never did propose for that young girl. Whether he would have done so
in after years cannot now be decided. In 1806, when this hard conflict
was fought out, less than three years of his fair life on earth
remained.

After his four months' holiday at home—just at the close of which
Roy Baron reached London—Moore was despatched on another expedition
to Sweden. It was an expedition rendered especially trying to its
Commander, and abortive in itself, by the crazy conduct of the King of
Sweden, who, not long after, went mad and had to be deposed. Moore,
when setting sail for England, wrote to his mother: "This campaign in
Sweden has proved the most painful to me I ever served."

One trial followed another in these later years of his life. The
heaviest of all was yet to come.

In the autumn of 1807, when Italy, Holland, Prussia, Austria, and
Russia had been all either conquered or humiliated and crushed,
Portugal next fell a victim to the rapacious Conqueror; and Portugal
was made a steppingstone to the conquest of Spain. Before the end of
May 1808, when Sir John Moore was sailing for Sweden, the French army
entered Madrid, declaring the whole country subject to the Emperor of
the French, and proclaiming Joseph Buonaparte king.

Then it was that the tide of Napoleon's successes reached high-water
mark. From this date, it may be said, the retreat of the waters began
on land, as their fall had earlier begun upon the ocean—at first
imperceptibly, for a long while fitfully, yet with accelerating speed.

Again and again the Spaniards had fought on the side of the French
against the English. But now at last the spell seemed to be broken; now
at last their eyes were opened. "As a man," it was declared, Spain had
risen against the Emperor; and a burst of enthusiasm, of generous and
vehement sympathy, rushed through the length and breadth of England. A
passionate longing to be led against the enemy pervaded all ranks in
the Army.

By the time that Moore got home from Sweden, Sir Arthur Wellesley had
already been sent to Portugal, with a force of nine thousand men; and
the eleven thousand, who had returned from the fruitless errand to
Sweden, were at once ordered to Portsmouth en route for Portugal.

An evening or two later Jack rushed in upon the Bryce circle, in hot
haste.

"Jack! Hallo, man—what's up now? Something out of the common, to judge
from the looks of you," declared Mr. Bryce, sitting near the window, in
flowered waistcoat, velvet tights, and silver-buckled shoes.

"How d'you all do? How d'you do, ma'am? Find yourself well, Polly? All
right, Molly? Heard the news?"

"What news?" from all four.

"Sir John Moore is ordered off to Spain. And our regiment is under
orders too!"

"Oh!" from Molly. "And if Roy should be taken prisoner!"

"Or if he should not!" suggested Mr. Bryce. "Nay, child, we'll permit
no doleful foretellings. What's up, jack? 'Tis no ill news to you to be
ordered to the seat of war."

"Ill news, sir! No!" with sufficient energy.

"Yet you look uncommon like to a thunder-cloud. What's wrong?"

"Could wish nothing better than to go, sir. Every man in the Army is
wild to be off. But I'm angry, I'll admit. 'Tis a fact that, after
serving in Sicily and in Sweden as Chief in command, Sir John Moore is
now to be in a subordinate position as third."

"Yet the King and the Duke of York are ever his friends," mused Mr.
Bryce. "And Lord Castlereagh esteems him highly."

"So say all. But there's Sir Arthur Wellesley in command of one army,
gone to Spain; and Sir John till now in command of another; and both of
'em to be under Sir Hew Dalrymple; and till he gets to Portugal, Sir
Harry Burrard is to act for him. Moore—the foremost and most brilliant
officer England has ever owned—to be under Burrard and Dalrymple! Has
the world gone crazed? But he'll rise to the top—small fear!"

"What says Sir John himself?"

Jack's face broke into a smile.

"Well, sir, it must go no further. Sir John was summoned to the
presence of Lord Castlereagh to receive orders. And those who were in
waiting in the anteroom heard sounds of a stormy interview. Sir John
said after to a friend—so I am told—that he had had it out with the
Ministers, and he was glad he had, for he would now think no more about
the matter."

"Jack, shall we soon see Roy?" asked Molly.

Jack had little doubt that Roy would look in. Everything was to be done
in a terrific hurry; and he had come himself to say good-bye there and
then; but Roy would certainly appear before starting for Portugal. A
few minutes later he called Polly into the little boudoir, and said:
"That's a brave Poll. No tears and no wailings. 'Tis as should be."

"Dear Jack, I know well how glad you are. And I would not hold you
back." Polly spoke courageously, though she looked white.

"I knew well that you would bid me God-speed. And you will think of me.
Think especially on Sunday—in church. Eh, dear? Polly, no letter from
Verdun?"

Polly looked sadly at her brother.

"I have not writ to him lately, Jack. I cannot tell how to write. What
shall I do? I have none but you to advise me. And if he should no
longer care—if he should by now have forgot me?"

"He is not that sort. Trust him, Polly."

"It is so long—five years and more. And no letter from him of later
date than the summer of 1806! Jack, sometimes I wonder—why does he not
ask me to go out to him there. If he asked me I would go. And sure, if
he indeed wished it, he might send me some little word—by some private
hand—"

Jack was silent, thinking.

"And there is that French girl, whom Roy is so fond of—always with
them, as one of themselves."

"But trust him still, Polly dear," urged Jack. "I cannot know, neither
can you, how things are yet a while; only I do truly believe that Den
is no man to change, nor to be fickle in his likings. Whether you write
or do not write, trust him still!"



CHAPTER XXXI

ORDERED TO SPAIN

A FEW hours later Roy came in, wild with joy, bringing a brother-Ensign
and great friend, Robert Monke, first cousin to Jack and Polly. Monke
was two or three years older than Roy, but he looked two years less. He
was a slight lad, fair-haired, blue-eyed, dreamy in expression. Bitche
had made Roy older than his years; and Bob Monke was younger than his.

No wonder Roy was half crazy with delight. To be ordered, when barely
eighteen, to the seat of war—to serve in his first campaign under Sir
John Moore;—this indeed went beyond the utmost that he had dared to
hope for.

"You'll write to me sometimes," pleaded Molly, clinging to him,
oblivious of a pair of dreamy eyes fixed wistfully on her face. She had
no attention but for Roy; not that she did not like Bob Monke, as she
would have said, "quite as much as most people." But Bob had begun to
want something more than the liking accorded to most people.

"And oh, Roy, don't be taken prisoner again."

"Trust me for that," laughed Roy.

"But you won't be too reckless." Molly turned to Bob. "You'll look
after him, won't you? For me!"

"I'd do anything in the world for you, Molly." Bob's whole heart was in
the words.

"I don't mean that you are to put yourself in danger, of course."
Molly's soft heart reproached her, for not having shown concern on
behalf of Bob as well. "And Roy must take care of you too. Only—"

"Only I'm ages older than Roy. I'll be sure."

"Much more likely I shall have to look after Bob. He's no end of a
dreaming genius—most of his time in the clouds," laughed Roy. "Take
care of yourself, Molly—and don't let Polly lose heart."

And then they were gone.

Jack had not been mistaken as to the nature of the interview which had
just taken place between Sir John Moore and the Secretary of State. It
had been of a stormy description.

Sir John, with all his sweetness of disposition, had a fiery temper.
And though he habitually held in that temper with so firm a curb
that he could be described as "the most amiable man in the British
Army," yet there were times when it got the better of him. Those kind
eyes could flash with a scathing light, and those lips could pour
forth vehement utterances. Perhaps the thing which he was least able
patiently to endure was the sense of being unjustly treated.

It may be, too, that at this moment he was physically suffering from
the severe strain, not only of his late trying expedition to Sweden,
but of the hardly less trying time in Sicily. He may even yet have
been under something of reaction from that hard fight, when his own
"feelings" had had to be, from a sense of duty, sternly repressed, for
the sake of the young girl whom he loved. In a letter, written three or
four days later from Portsmouth, to his mother, a note of weariness may
be detected, unwonted in Moore. But Rest waited ahead, not far distant;
though a fierce experience lay between.

One way or another he did wax wrathful in this interview, and he spoke
out his mind with uncompromising frankness. He considered that he had
been unhandsomely treated. Coming, as he did, from a chief command, if
he were now to be placed in an inferior post, some explanation was his
due.

"His Majesty's Ministers have a right to employ what officers they
please," Sir John went on, working off his warmth. "But I have a right,
in common with all officers who have served zealously, to expect to
be treated with attention, and, when employment is offered, that some
regard should be paid to my former services."

"I am not aware, Sir John, of having given you just cause for
complaint," Castlereagh replied gravely; and he did not say much
more. No one, looking on, could have imagined that this cold-mannered
Secretary would, not many months later, fight a duel in defence of
the fair fame of the gallant General now before him. The famous duel
between Castlereagh and Canning is widely known, but its true cause, as
asserted by Lady Castlereagh, is less well understood.¹

Moore had said his say, and doubtless felt relieved. He started
post-haste for Portsmouth, pausing on the road for one night at his
mother's country home.

The parting with her next day was sadder than usual.

   ¹ "Life of Sir C. Napier," by W. Napier.

Some forebodings may well have suggested themselves to the mother's
heart, as she watched that manly figure pass away into the distance. He
had been to her the most tender of sons; but on earth she would see him
never again.

Four or five days later Moore resigned to Sir Harry Burrard the chief
command. But though no longer at the head of affairs, he would still
have control of his own Division; and that Division included the
regiment to which Jack and Roy and Bob belonged.

Moore did not leave nearly so much to unassisted Nature as a good many
generals of the day were content to do. It was his way to see and
personally to influence the young officers under his command. Roy,
being aware of this, was not surprised to be early summoned to his
presence. Punctually at the hour named he reached Sir John's lodgings.

Sir John stood, talking to his friend Colonel Anderson, at the upper
end of the room into which Roy was shown—a strangely attractive figure,
alike dignified and winning, with a brow of regal breadth and power,
searching luminous eyes, through which at times the whole spirit of
the man seemed to shine, and well-cut sensitive lips, gentle as those
of any woman in expression, while yet they could close like adamant.
Roy, with one swift glance, took in the whole, and, as he did so, a
vivid picture flashed up in his mind of the day, more than five years
earlier, when he had seen that same face, little dreaming of all that
should lie between that date and this.

Child as he had been then, he saw a change. The sharp discipline of
life, especially sharp of late, had left its traces. The face was
thinner, with a worn outline of cheek; and a touch of pensive gravity,
even of sadness, lay deep in the hazel eyes. But this was only during
silence and repose. The moment Moore spoke, his face lighted up with
all its former brilliancy, while the old wonderful charm of manner was
unchanged, or rather was intensified.

Roy noted all this, and more. In one flash he knew why Denham Ivor so
loved Sir John, and why men could with very gladness die for him. The
young Ensign's heart beat tumultuously under a rush of new sensations,
and a passion of devotion for such a leader as this sprang at once into
being.

Moore, gazing in his earnest fashion upon the boy, read the look in
his face, and smiled; and in an instant sadness vanished. It was no
new thing for him to be conscious of his own magical control over the
hearts of others.

A few businesslike questions were put, as to when Roy had joined his
regiment and the training he had since received. Presently Moore
remarked—

"So you escaped from Bitche, I am told!"

"I was so fortunate, sir. With the help of a Frenchman."

"Ha! How was that?"

"He was grateful, sir, to my father, and wished to make a return. He
had been taken in the conscription some time before, and my father
and Captain Ivor helped to pay for a substitute. It was for his old
mother's sake."

This was a note which could not fail to appeal to the most loyal of
sons. Moore's face showed quick response, though he only said—"Détenus?"

"Yes, sir. We were detained in 1803—my father and Captain Ivor. My
mother stayed with them, and I could not get a passport. Later on I was
sent from Verdun to Bitche."

"Denham Ivor of the Guards! I remember—he was among the détenus."

"Yes, sir. He was under you in the West Indies and Holland and Egypt."

"Of course. I know him well. I regretted much not having him again. How
came he to linger so long in France?"

Roy explained briefly the smallpox complication, the General listening
with still that intent gaze.

"Then Ivor is at Verdun now. Hard upon him! As gallant a young fellow
as I ever had to do with. I would give something to have him in this
expedition."

Roy treasured up the words for Ivor's future comfort.

"Captain Ivor feels it terribly, sir," he said.

"You have been much thrown with him?"

"Yes, sir. He was my father's ward. He has always been a brother and
friend to me."

"I am glad to hear it. He is a friend worth having." After a slight
break the General remarked, "Napoleon made a blunder there, for once.
The absence of proper exchange falls at least as heavily upon the
French as upon ourselves. How long were you imprisoned at Bitche?"

"Nearly nine months, sir."

"The place has been described as a hell upon earth."

"Yes, sir." Roy looked up into the now grave face. "That is not too
strong a description. It is—awful."

"I must hear more another day—" as some one else came up, claiming
attention. "By the bye, you know Captain Keene also. He spoke to me of
you."

"Yes, sir. We are connected."

"Well, Baron, I shall expect a good deal from a friend of Ivor's."

"I will do my best, sir, not to disappoint you."

Sir John smiled kindly again, as he turned away. Roy went out of the
room, captivated, dazzled, wild to do and to dare aught in the world
for the sake of Moore.



CHAPTER XXXII

TWO MIGHTY MEN

ON the 20th of August Sir John Moore reached Portugal. He was ordered
at once to disembark and to join Sir Arthur Wellesley.

Three days before Moore's arrival Sir Arthur—future Duke of
Wellington—gained a victory over the French at Vimiera. Unfortunately
he was at this moment superseded in command by Sir Harry Burrard, who
arrived while the battle was being actually fought. The two Generals
greeted one another upon the field.

This meant that the pursuit of the flying foe, which ought to have
ended in a thorough rout, was timidly cut short. Next day Burrard was
in turn superseded by Sir Hew Dalrymple; and his management of affairs
and hasty signing of an armistice raised at home a storm of indignation.

Just at this point a little by-play took place, which so plainly shows
the characters of the then two greatest English Generals, that it is
worth telling.

Moore took the first step. He went to Dalrymple, chief in command, and
said to him, with decision, that if hostilities should begin again,
Wellesley, and not himself, ought to have the command. Moore had the
first right, as senior; but he counted it only fair that Wellesley
should be allowed to carry on what he had so well begun, and he offered
freely to waive his own right.

Wellesley took the second step. While Moore thus generously proposed
to sacrifice his own claims on behalf of a junior, Wellesley was only
anxious that Moore's great gifts should not be lost to his country. The
conduct of these two grand men, each towards the other, is a fair sight
indeed, beside the jealousies which sometimes mar the bravest natures.

A frank, soldierly letter was sent by Wellesley to Moore, referring to
his recent interview with "His Majesty's Ministers," and expressing a
fear lest Moore's action that day might stand in the way of his being
raised to the supreme command.

Would Sir John be willing to discuss the question with him? "It appears
to me," he wrote, "to be quite impossible we can go on as we are now
constituted. The Commander-in-chief must be changed; and the Country
and the Army naturally turn their eyes to you as their Commander."

This letter took Moore by surprise. The two had met before, perhaps,
but they had not been intimate. He at once replied cordially, and the
interview was arranged for the next day, Wellesley calling upon Moore
on his way home.

Outsiders, of course, did not know what this interview meant. Jack
and Roy, taking a stroll together in a leisure hour, passed Moore's
quarters at the moment when Wellesley rode up and dismounted. Their
eyes met, and Roy murmured, "Wonder what's up now!"

"Something will have to be up soon, if things are not to go to a
complete smash," returned Jack. "England won't stand long throwing men
and money away for nothing. If battles are to end as that did the other
day—" he referred to Vimiera—"there'll be a rumpus somewhere. Shouldn't
wonder if a change is coming soon. Those two don't meet for nothing."

"No chance of anything proper being done till Moore is put into his
right place," declared indignant Roy, not aware that he was echoing the
precise sentiments of Sir Arthur Wellesley himself.

And they knew nothing, they could know nothing, of what was at that
moment going on within the four walls of the house they had passed.

The confidential talk which took place inside those walls was a
remarkable one.

Two of the greatest men of their generation had met there—one who was
in a few years to become the foremost soldier of his age; another
who could hardly have failed to become so, had he lived a few years
longer. Each was bent upon the good of his country; each was willing
to sacrifice for the benefit of the other what might be for his own
gain. One by birth was Scots, one by birth was Irish; but both were
British—nay, English!—to the backbone.

Sir Arthur Wellesley, in age eight years the younger, was still at the
opening of his grand career. Sir John Moore, after thirty years of
hard service, was fast nearing the close of his. He at this date had a
world-wide fame. Sir Arthur, though he had made his mark by a masterly
campaign in India, was not yet famous beyond a certain circle. But
Moore had noted his power.

Wellesley's strongly-outlined eagle face and large Roman nose
contrasted with the refined delicacy of Moore's features. In force of
character, however, in strength of will, in courage and patriotism, in
freedom from all narrowness of party spirit, the two were alike. With
Wellesley, as with Moore, private interests went down before National
interests, and DUTY was a word utterly supreme through life.

Perhaps the main difference between the two lay in the fact that
Wellesley lacked that peculiar "strain of sweetness," that element of
womanly tenderness, which made Moore so intensely beloved. His was a
more homogeneously iron nature; yet it was of finely-wrought iron.

They went quietly into the matter together. Moore's impetuous
self-defence before Castlereagh was referred to; and Sir John gave full
particulars, adding frankly, "I thought it needful to express what I
felt under the circumstances. But having done so, I have felt no more
upon the subject."

Wellesley demurred. He feared that Sir John's heat on that occasion
might stand in the path of his future usefulness. He was absolutely
sure that no unkind intentions had existed on the part of the
Ministers. Lord Castlereagh was naturally "cautious;" and a difficulty
might have been felt in giving the chief command to Sir John until a
formal explanation had taken place with the Swedish Court.

Then Sir Arthur earnestly pressed to be allowed to say to the Ministers
that Moore was sorry to have misunderstood them, if no slight had been
intended; and that, having once for all spoken out, he would think of
the matter no more.

Moore hesitated. No opening had been made from the Government. He
hardly saw how he could take the first step. He had known what the
consequences might be of his course of action. And to make a submission
now, merely with a view to getting a higher post,—"That is out of the
question," he said firmly.

Wellesley was not convinced. Then, as ever, his one thought was for
England's good. He knew what the loss of Moore's services in any
degree could not fail to be to England. It seemed to him that personal
feelings, and what might be thought of any individual action, were
matters unimportant, compared with the one great question of the
Country's need, the one fact that Moore more than any living man could
supply that need. He still urged his own view of what ought to be done.

And Sir John partly yielded. If Sir Arthur were enough interested to
mention this conversation to Lord Castlereagh, simply stating as a fact
that Sir John had not the smallest feeling of ill-will to any man in
the Ministry, he was welcome to do so. If wrong impressions were held,
he would be grateful to any friend who should kindly set matters right.

Further than this Moore declined to budge. Wellesley had to promise
that he would keep strictly to the terms dictated. He sailed next day
for England.

But before he could carry out his generous intentions, such steps as
he most desired had been already taken. The opposition to Moore's
appointment, offered mainly by Canning, had been overcome by the
determination of the King, who roundly declared that "No man but Moore
should command that army."

Dalrymple was recalled; Burrard was superseded; and Moore was placed
at the head of about thirty thousand men, to be used in the north of
Spain, conjointly with the Spanish forces. Had the Duke of York been
allowed a free hand, Moore might have had sixty thousand.

So strongly had Sir John been impressed, during the interview, with
the lofty disinterestedness of the future Iron Duke, that it must have
gratified him to get a letter from Wellesley containing these words: "I
find that by the distribution I am placed under your command—than which
nothing can be more agreeable to me. I will go to Coruña immediately,
where I hope to find you."

It so happened that, after the Battle of Vimiera, Sir Arthur had
written to Lord Castlereagh, asking to be ordered home, since he
had been "too successful" with the Army "ever to serve with it in a
subordinate position" satisfactorily. Which meant that he could not
thus serve under those who were then placed over him. To serve under
Sir John Moore wore plainly in his eyes a very different aspect.

Unfortunately he was kept in England for other purposes, and Moore had
not the help of his presence during the coming campaign.



CHAPTER XXXIII

CAPTIVES STILL

LIFE at Verdun went wearily on, week after week, month after month.
Little happened there, to vary the dead monotony of existence.

Months, many and long, had dragged past since the day when Roy was
hurried away to Bitche. No news of him had since been received. Letters
had been written by Roy, but they had not reached his friends. Letters
had been written by Colonel and Mrs. Baron, and money had been sent;
but whether these had found their way to Roy was utterly uncertain. A
few Bitche prisoners who had arrived knew nothing of him.

Lucille had come across Jean Paulet, and had done her best to enlist
his help. But they had now almost ceased to look for Jean's appearance.

How Mrs. Baron would have lived through this prolonged suspense it is
hard to say, but for the pressing need to forget herself in attendance
upon Ivor. She had not in the past, with all her attractiveness, been
unselfish; but trouble was teaching her to put self into the background.

Denham's complete breakdown after the march from Valenciennes was
ascribed by his friends to the arrest of Roy; and no doubt that event
had a hand in the matter. For many weeks he was in a state of more or
less acute danger. They had their hands full—Lucille as well as the
Barons. During the greater part of a month, he could seldom be left
alone, night or day. Even when the worst was over, his recovery proved
to be of a very slow and intermittent kind. Weakness seemed incurable.

It dawned upon Mrs. Baron one day how long a time had passed with no
mention of Polly. Ivor was not given to talking about his own affairs;
and much of this abstention might be due to his excessive languor; yet
such persistent silence was hardly thus to be fully accounted for.
If unable to write to Polly himself; he could have sent a message.
Hitherto Mrs. Baron had avoided with him all distressing subjects. She
began to wonder if this plan had been wise.

"If only Jean would come!" sighed Lucille.

"Yes," Mrs. Baron replied. "Den thinks a great deal of my boy. It keeps
him back. I know that. But—there is Polly too."

Lucille's face clouded slightly.

"That old affair, does it continue still, madame? Mademoiselle Keene
does not write. Captain Ivor does not ask after her. May it not be that
they forget?"

"Denham does not forget." Mrs. Baron saw with clearness a danger for
Lucille. No answer came. Lucille hastily left the room.

Denham had been ordered to take daily exercise; and he had just started
for a turn, with the help of Colonel Baron's arm. Reaching the end of
the street, they turned a corner and came upon Curtis. He was hurrying
along, a troubled frown upon his face.

"Ivor!—taking a stroll. You don't look like getting on much. Colonel,
can I have a word with you presently—merely a trifle—business, I mean,"
with a hasty self-correction.

"Anything pressing?" asked the Colonel.

"N—o. That is to say—"

"News from Bitche?" inquired Ivor. Curtis, taken by surprise, faltered.
"I thought so. What is it?"

"I assure you—nothing definite as to Roy." The suppressed agitation in
Curtis's manner hardly bore out his words.

"Anybody arrived from Bitche? Has Roy been seen?"

Curtis hesitated again. He was a bad hand at evasion.

"Whatever has been told you, we must hear the whole—and at once. No
keeping back of anything, please."

Under a small tree, some paces off, was an unoccupied seat. Denham
moved thither, the other two standing. "Now!" he said.

Colonel Baron had not spoken thus far. In reply to an appealing glance,
he muttered, "Yes; no use! You have said too much. Tell the whole." And
Curtis obeyed.

The tale which he had to repeat was not new in kind, though perhaps
worse than aught which had yet reached their ears. He gave it briefly,
making as little as might be of facts which could not be softened
down. It was a story which readers of this book already know—about a
party of young fellows, chiefly middies, who sought to escape from
Bitche over the high outer wall. A French officer of rank, who heard
of the project, had kept watch till it neared completion. Then, at the
critical moment, he had cut through the rope on which the lads hung; by
which brutal deed many of them had been killed on the spot, many others
severely hurt.

Colonel Baron's lips were compressed, and his look was stern. Ivor
heard with outward quietness.

"Was Roy one of them?"

"They don't know. They can't say. I told you, I have no certain news of
Roy."

"No. But you have some reason to suppose that he might have been one of
the party."

Curtis hesitated again. "He—one of the men—did hear a report. They were
only a night or two at Bitche, in the great dungeon, some time after
this happened. It was said that Roy had been there—up to the day when
the escape was attempted. And after that—"

"After that—?"

"Roy had disappeared. As well as the midshipmen."

Dead silence followed. Denham was the first to speak.

"No certainty—either way. This must not reach Mrs. Baron. Take care
that it does not come to her ears."

"It will be all over Verdun in a day." Colonel Baron spoke in a gloomy
tone. "But perhaps—if I warn friends—"

"Go at once—both of you. Never mind me. For Heaven's sake, keep it from
her, at least till we know the truth," urged Ivor passionately.

Colonel Baron insisted on giving him an arm as far as the house; after
which he and Curtis went off together, and Denham dragged himself
slowly upstairs. Lucille was gone out; and Mrs. Baron came to meet him.
"My dear Den—how ill you look! What made you go so far?"

Ivor was past speaking, and she busied herself for some minutes,
bathing his brow, till he could murmur, "I'm a trouble to everybody."

"One does not talk of trouble when people are—what you are to us."

He could not smile, thinking of that which might have come to Roy.

"I wish I could see you a little stronger. Such a short turn ought
not to knock you up like this. Lucille says you are kept back by the
suspense as to my boy. Is that true?" She spoke steadily, for trouble
long-continued had taught the once spoilt wife self-control.

Denham's hand closed on hers silently.

"You must not be too anxious. I think it shows a want of trust. I try
hard not to be so myself. My boy is in God's hands, and He will not
fail us. I do believe our prayers will be heard—and Roy be taken care
of."

"Such trust—cannot be thrown away!"

"Lucille still hopes to hear from Jean."

"Yes—"

"Den, I want to ask you something else. Are you worrying yourself about
getting so few letters from home? From Polly, I mean. I don't think you
need. We know how often she may have written, and not a single letter
reach us."

Denham would not refuse the subject. Anything at that moment was better
than questions as to Roy. A slight movement checked her.

"No," he said very low. "I heard, while at Valenciennes. That is—at an
end."

"Not—you and Polly! You do not mean that she will not wait!"

"She is so young. It could not be the same to her—as to—"

"But you do not know this for a certainty."

"She was engaged—months ago—to Captain Peirce."

Mrs. Baron understood now, only too well, the change in Ivor's
looks on his return to Verdun, the dangerous illness, and the tardy
convalescence.

"And—that broke you down."

"I suppose it helped."

"Did Polly herself write?"

"No. A friend."

"But not Polly! May it not be a mistake?"

"I am afraid not. The authority was good."

"You would have waited twenty years for her?" Scalding tears were in
Mrs. Baron's eyes.

"I!—yes."

"Den, I don't know how to believe it."

"I am glad to have told you. It is right that you should know. But
after this—I cannot talk of her—even to you."

Yet it might be that he was conscious of relief at having spoken. He
did his best presently to seem more cheerful.

An hour later Colonel Baron returned; and two minutes after Lucille,
who had been out, threw open the door.

"At last! At last!" she cried, joyously clapping her hands. "Ah,
Madame,—good news at last! Jean is come, to tell us of Roy. Ah, the
good man,—is he not good? He comes to say that Roy is escaped—Roy is
safe—Roy is gone to England. Entrez! Entrez! Ah, come, Monsieur, and
tell the news."

Mrs. Baron cried out in startled tones, while the Colonel's overcast
brow was wondrously lightened, and Denham sprang to his feet with
almost the energy of old days.

"Oui, oui, Monsieur—grâce à Dieu—it is good news that I have the
happiness to bring. Monsieur is no longer in that frightful Bitche. He
is by now, I sincerely hope, safe in his own country. Oui, Monsieur,
I travelled with him, and I stayed with him till he left France—in an
English vessel bound for England. It was long waiting for a vessel,
but the opportunity came at last. And I have returned, as I promised
cette bonne demoiselle that I would assuredly do. I have found my way
to Verdun, to set the hearts of monsieur's friends at rest—the heart of
Madame sa Mère, and of Monsieur son Père, and of Monsieur le Capitaine.
I grieve to see Monsieur still si malade. But Monsieur Roy is safe—out
of reach of l'Empéreur."

Jean had to stop, for Lucille was crying; and Mrs. Baron was clinging
to her husband, overcome by the very joy of relief; and the Colonel
could only choke when he tried to speak; and Denham, no less voiceless,
had grasped Jean's hand in gratitude.

"Mais, Monsieur—mais, Madame—mais, Mademoiselle —I have done nothing,
truly nothing at all. Save that which cette bonne demoiselle desired me
to do. And truly, for the matter of thanks, that which ces messieurs
did in the past for me and my mother can never be forgotten."

Then Jean's voice failed him too.



CHAPTER XXXIV

AT SALAMANCA

"WHAT wouldn't Den give to be here?" murmured Roy.

He stood in the splendid Plaza of the fine old Spanish town, Salamanca.
It was an enormous square, perhaps hardly to be outdone in Europe as
to size, having been built to hold as many as twenty thousand people,
on the occasion of a great bull-fight. On one side stood the buildings
devoted to municipal functions, and around ran an arcade formed of
nearly one hundred arches.

Salamanca had been named as the rendezvous for the British Army, coming
in detachments and by different routes from Portugal. During the last
fortnight one body of men after another had arrived, all full of life
and energy, all burning to meet the foe.

This was the twenty-fifth of November, exactly two months from the
date of the despatch sent by British Ministers, appointing Sir John
Commander of the Forces in the Peninsula. Despatches in those days
travelled slowly; and Moore had been terribly hampered. There was no
organised Army Transport. There was no regular Intelligence Department.
By far the greater number of his officers, however ardent in spirit
they might be, had seen no active service. His Army, though it included
some of the most splendid regiments in Europe, trained by himself
in earlier years at Shorncliffe, included also large numbers of raw
recruits, the latter having to be, almost in the face of the enemy,
"drilled and rattled" into shape.

Yet, within three weeks of receiving the news of his appointment, Moore
with his staff left Lisbon.

High hopes had been felt, resting partly on confident reports of
Spanish enthusiasm and preparedness. Sixty or seventy thousand
soldiers, it was said, under three Spanish Generals, burning with
ardour to extinguish the French, waited to join the British Army, sent
to their aid. The French, few in number and depressed in spirit, would
be nowhere before these valiant warriors.

But such hopes as depended on Spanish valour were already waxing dim.
News had filtered round to Salamanca of advancing French, and of
retiring Spaniards. Two of the Spanish Generals, with their forces, had
beaten a hasty retreat. The third, under Castanos, might or might not
follow suit. If he too failed, the British Army would find itself in
serious straits, and be compelled to retreat also.

No such thought was in the mind of Roy Baron, or of his
brother-officers. They were eager to come face to face with the enemy.

It was over ten days since Roy had reached Salamanca, and already he
felt at home there. Many changes in his short life had made ready
adaptation to fresh surroundings an easy matter.

The great Plaza was full of people—British soldiers marching past,
Spanish sightseers gazing. Every soldier wore a red cockade, in
compliment to the nation he had come to help. Banners fluttered gaily,
and the bracing wintry air was stirred by the incessant throb of drums.
As one band died away, another drew near.

Drilling and marching were the order of the day. The Army had to be
welded into shape; and not an hour was wasted. Subalterns, as well as
officers of higher grades, were kept busy.

Roy, finding himself off duty for a short time, had wandered into the
great square, to see what was going on, and to add his voice in lusty
welcome to the latest arrived regiment. He stood close to one of the
Corinthian columns, by which the arches were upborne. A thought of
Verdun had come to him, and a recollection of Denham. What would not
Den have given to be with them?

"Hallo, Roy!"

Roy spoke out impulsively the idea uppermost in his mind, as Jack and
his cousin, Bob Monke, walked up.

"I say, Jack—if Den were but here!"

Jack made a sound of commiseration.

"I often think how lucky it was I knocked down that wretched bust, and
got myself sent to Bitche. But for that—why, I might be kicking up my
heels at Verdun, to this very day. Odd!—when one comes to think!—it
seemed about the worst thing which could have happened to me. One never
does know at the time. I know I wouldn't undo it all now."

Roy was young, but he lived in a moralising age.

Jack nodded general assent. "Where have you been? We couldn't find you."

"Took a look at the cathedral. It's a jolly fine building. Any number
of centuries old."

"There's Napier. I want a word with him."

Jack dashed off towards an aide-de-camp of Sir John, Captain George
Napier, one of a gallant trio of brothers, all present in this
expedition. Roy did not follow. Bob Monke was remarking, in his dreamy
voice,—"Men in uncommonly good condition."

"Fit for anything!" agreed Roy.

"No letters from home, I suppose."

"Yesterday."

"Good news of your sister?" A slight flush came to the young fellow's
cheek.

"Molly is all right. She asks me to remember her to you."

Jack came back at a swinging pace. "Look out—here comes the General!"

A stir took place, every face turning in one direction, as Moore on a
spirited charger rode slowly through the square. His glance seemed to
be everywhere; and he managed his steed with the unconscious ease of a
perfect rider.

"Looks harassed," murmured Jack.

"He looks—the grandest fellow that ever lived," uttered Bob.

"My dear boy, you won't find any man in the Army to contradict that.
If you're anxious to get up an enlivening discussion, try some other
topic."

"What I want to know is—when are we to be joined by the Spanish, and
have a go at the French?" demanded Roy, earnestly following Moore with
his gaze.

"Everybody else wants to know precisely the same. Blake and Romana
haven't proved 'emselves good for much. Question now is—what of
Castanos?"

This question was pressing heavily on Sir John Moore. Though as yet he
did not and could not know the enormous size of the French Army then
within the borders of Spain, he did know that it certainly more than
trebled the small British force under his own control. Working side by
side with fifty thousand or more good Spanish soldiers, he might hope
to do much. But if those fifty thousand should prove themselves of no
more use than a bundle of rotten sticks, Salamanca was no place for his
little Army.

Sir John was a systematically early riser. Next morning, as usual,
he was up between three and four o'clock. He lighted the fire with
his own hands, after his habit, from a lamp kept burning in his room;
and before turning to business, he wrote a confidential letter to one
of his brothers. As a Commander he was exceedingly reserved, seldom
revealing what he knew or what he intended to do, sooner than was
necessary. It might be that a craving for sympathy had come over him,
in the weight of his lonely responsibilities. Whatever he said would be
safe with his own people.

"Upon entering Spain," he wrote, "I have found affairs in a very
different state from what I expected, or from what they are thought
to be in England. I am in a scrape, from which God knows how I am to
extricate myself. But instead of Salamanca, this Army should have been
assembled at Seville." And, at the close of a full and clear statement
of affairs, he continued: "I understand all is fear and confusion
at Madrid. Tell James it is difficult to judge at a distance. The
Spaniards have not shown themselves a wise or a provident people. Their
wisdom is not a wisdom of action; but still they are a fine people;
a character of their own quite distinct from other nations; and much
might have been done with them. Perhaps they may rouse again. Pray for
me that I may make right decisions; if I make bad ones, it will not be
for want of consideration. I sleep little. It is now only five in the
morning, and I have concluded, since I got up, this long letter."

The whole letter was very patient and calm; and especially touching
were those simple words—"Pray for me!"—from a man so intensely reticent
on religious subjects as Sir John. If words were needed to show what he
was, beside the plain utterance of such a character and such a life as
his, these alone would serve to make it abundantly clear that silence
on his part meant neither lack of thought nor lack of feeling.

Two days later came the news that Castanos had been routed by the
French. It was evident that the so-called "retirement" of the other
Spanish generals had been, in each case, a complete defeat.

Moore's little force now stood alone, in the heart of what had become
practically an enemy's country. The order went forth—given with what
pain and reluctance those knew who knew Moore—to prepare for retreat.
Yet still he held on, delaying day after day. He would not take the
actual step until it had become a necessity.



CHAPTER XXXV

MOORE'S BOLD VENTURE

"THEY say so!" observed Jack.

"Who do?"

"Those two Spanish fellows that came into camp yesterday—the two
generals. I've not seen 'em, but plenty of others have. They vow and
declare that Castanos wasn't routed by any manner of means. Can't of
course deny the fact of some slight reverses; but they have it that the
spirit of Spain is unbroken. And they beg and beseech that Moore will
give 'em another chance—not retreat to Portugal, and leave 'em to their
fate."

"Will he?" demanded Roy breathlessly.

"Can't tell. Moore never speaks till he means to act. Good news for
us all, if he does. I haven't overmuch faith in Spanish enthusiasm.
Don't want the Spaniards to bolster us up, though. Twenty-four thousand
British are equal any day to thirty or forty thousand French. But what
can be done, Sir John will do."

"Just for once to get within reach of Soult, and have at him!"
fervently uttered Roy. "Hallo, there's Bob coming full tilt."

"Something in the wind. Bob doesn't go that pace for nothing."

Full tilt indeed came Bob Monke, waving his cap frantically. Jack and
Roy were standing on the great Salamanca bridge, formed of twenty-six
arches, many of which dated back to Roman days. The strong river flowed
below; and Roy had been leaning over as they talked, gazing into the
water. Now he stood watching Bob's approach.

"What does he say?" as a shout was borne on the breeze. They were near
the centre of the bridge, which measures five hundred feet from end to
end, and Bob was distant still; but as he drew near, his fair face was
seen to be flushed with excitement, and words became distinguishable.

"Hurrah! Order to advance! Retreat countermanded! Hurrah!"

"Hurrah!" shouted Roy, and three caps went up together.

Then they dashed into camp to learn particulars. Not much could be
gathered as yet, beyond the bare fact that an immediate advance was
commanded. With light-hearted enthusiasm, the whole Army responded.
Moore, upon whom the full weight of responsibility rested, could
scarcely be light of heart. He knew too well what this move might mean.

When news was first received of the complete collapse of the Spaniards,
he had planned a retreat to Portugal, there to await reinforcements
from England. But heavy pressure was brought to bear upon him. And as
one assurance after another was given, from various quarters, that the
Spaniards were still in the mood to fight, with vehement urging that he
would not forsake the unfortunate people whom he had come to help, he
at length resolved to give them one more opportunity to show themselves
men.

A daring conception had come to his mind, and it was promptly carried
out. Instead of retiring at once to a position of safety, he would
first make a bold swoop upon Soult's Army, thus threatening the line
of Napoleon's communications with France. And his object in so doing
was, simply and definitely, by drawing the weight of the Conqueror's
fury upon himself and his small British force, to relieve the fearful
pressure upon the southern provinces of Spain.

It was a startling and a hazardous step. In the hand of any less
brilliant and experienced Commander, it might have ended in an awful
disaster—in a modern Thermopylae on a huge scale—in the wholesale
destruction of the British force.

Napoleon had expected, as a matter of course, that Moore would retreat
so soon as the Spanish armies melted away. What else could he do?
Napoleon had at this date within the borders of Spain 330,000 soldiers,
60,000 horses, and 200 pieces of field artillery. Moore had with him
less than 24,000 soldiers, and perhaps another 10,000 in Portugal,
inclusive of 4000 in hospital.

Then, to Napoleon's unbounded amazement, he learnt—getting the news on
December 2—that, in place of retreating, the puny British force was
boldly advancing towards the Douro.

The Emperor's exclamation, as heard by Marshal Ney, and afterwards
repeated by him to Major Charles Napier, was—

"Moore is the only General now fit to contend with me! I shall advance
against him in person."

Buonaparte seldom did things by halves, and he acted with even more
than his accustomed energy.

The force and genius of this English Commander, by whom he was so
daringly opposed, had suddenly burst upon him; and he at once knew that
no common effort on his own part would secure him the victory.

Without an hour's delay, orders went forth to check the southward march
of his columns, and to pour fifty thousand men in a torrent across the
snowy Guadarrama hills, that they might cut off the retreat of Moore to
the coast.

His object was to place the small English force between the great Army
of the south and the French corps under Soult,—the latter consisting
of about thirty thousand men. That done, the crushing of the British
Army would be a mere matter of detail. At any moment Napoleon could
supplement his first fifty thousand with a hundred thousand more.

But this fierce northward rush of Napoleon was exactly what Moore had
meant to bring about. He had drawn away the main body of the French
from the tortured south; he had given the Spaniards a breathing-space
in which to rally, if they would, for fresh resistance; and he had for
the moment saved Portugal from desperate peril. He could do no more.

Twenty-three thousand men, with eight or ten thousand more out of
reach, opposed to seventy or eighty thousand, with a hundred thousand
more within reach! Two thousand cavalry pitted against six or eight
times their own number! A collie-dog snapping at a Bengal tiger, would
be no inapt picture of Moore's desperate daring.

When news arrived of Napoleon's rush to cut off his communications with
Portugal, Moore was within twenty-four hours of falling upon Soult,
beyond the river Carrion. One sharp brush had already taken place with
the enemy—seven hundred French cavalry being routed by four hundred
English hussars. Every man in the Army was passionately eager to meet
the foe.

Moore, however, did not hesitate. The work intended by his spirited
advance was done. Nothing remained but to fall steadily back before
overwhelming odds.

All those bright expectations, with which he had started on this
expedition, had been dashed to the ground. In every direction he had
met with indifference and opposition, where he ought to have found
grateful co-operation. The Spanish forces had proved themselves
worthless.

And to the unutterable disappointment of officers and men, the forward
march was countermanded.

"Retreat, Jack! Now! When one day more would bring us up with Soult!"

How could Roy know, how could other murmuring spirits around him know,
that which Moore alone realised—that one day more of advance would be
simply playing into Napoleon's hands, would bring about that which the
tyrant of Europe most ardently desired—the complete annihilation of the
small British army?

There was indeed not a moment to be lost. By forced marches and the
utmost expedition the first and most perilous stage was done. The
river Esla was crossed; and not too soon. Napoleon, pushing furiously
forward, bent heart and soul on getting to Benevente before the
English, found himself twelve hours too late. Moore had precisely
reckoned his time, and had neatly baffled Europe's Conqueror.

A few days later, on the first of January, Napoleon had a second
dire mortification. He reached Astorga, for which he had aimed—again
straining every nerve, with the hope of cutting off Moore's
retreat,—and, as at the Esla, he was once more a day too late. A second
time Moore had quietly slipped away out of his grasp.

While at Astorga he heard of a fresh alliance between Russia and
Austria, and of a meditated attack upon France during his absence. The
crushing of Spain, delayed by Moore, had to be put off. Napoleon, with
a body of troops, hurried back to Paris. But he left Soult and Ney in
command of sixty or seventy thousand men in two columns, the one to
attack Moore in rear, the other to take him in flank, while thousands
scattered about the country were advancing to support them.

Enough, in all conscience, one would imagine, to deal with a retreating
force of less than twenty-four thousand!



CHAPTER XXXVI

A HAZARDOUS RETREAT

WITH almost superhuman energy the greatest General of that day had
exerted himself to bring up such a force, that the utter destruction of
the British might be a thing assured. In the course of ten days, and in
the bitterest wintry weather, he had marched fifty thousand soldiers
over snow-clad mountains a distance of two hundred miles, only to find
his stupendous efforts fruitless.

Now, all that Moore could hope to do was to save his little Army from
being crushed out of existence. To that aim he buckled his powers,
with unfaltering resolution. As William Napier wrote in after years,
"The inspiring hopes of triumph disappeared, but the austerer glory of
suffering remained, and with a firm heart he accepted that gift."

By the greater number in Moore's force this long ten days' retreat to
the coast had to be done on foot.

There were steep mountains to be climbed, there were deep valleys to be
passed, there were rapid rivers to be crossed; while an overwhelming
and confident Army, accustomed to unvarying success—an Army which had
twice failed by only twelve hours to cut them off from every hope of
escape—pressed with ever-growing fierceness upon the British rearguard.

It was mid-winter, and snow lay upon the ground. The days were short,
the nights were bitter. Heavy ice-cold rain fell often. Food was
scanty; shelter was hard to find; and both officers and men slept
upon the cold ground. The Spanish Army, contrary to Moore's earnest
request, blundered into the way of the retreating force, eating up the
provisions on which the English depended, and blocking the roads with
carts and mules.

In that furious race between the British and the French, first for
Benevente, next for Astorga, not an hour could be lost. At all costs
they had to press forward.

Hour after hour, oftentimes by night, the march continued, through
rain, or snow, or fog; up steep and slippery ascents, or down sharp
depths where foothold could hardly be found. On and on the men
stumbled, hungry, thirsty, weary, half asleep, not a few shoeless and
lame, many a one dropping through weakness by the roadside, never to
rise again.

In the van and in the centre of the Army some confusion reigned. But
in the reserve, where Moore was usually to be found, riding beside
his friend, General Paget, perfect discipline was maintained. All
there knew themselves to be under the eyes of their Commander, and his
presence, together with the attacks of the enemy, kept them up to the
mark. Again and again, and yet again, the French advanced guards were
charged and driven back.

The regiment to which belonged Jack, Roy, and Bob was in the Reserve,
to the no small delight of all three.

Roy Baron had passed through some strange experiences in his short
life. He would not easily forget this last experience—this steady,
disheartening, rearwards tramp, with Napoleon's trained battalions ever
"thundering" behind them.

He would not soon forget the bitter snowy weather, the sleet and hail,
the fogs and winds, the mountain heights, the exposed nights, the
dogged pluck and determination shown by the rearguard, the ceaseless
care and watchfulness of Moore, the invincible resolution of this man,
who by sheer force of will held the whole Army together, and never at
the worst allowed the retreat for one moment to become a flight.

Not that Roy was disheartened or depressed. Far from it. He was young
and strong and full of vigour. The very hardships of the retreat seemed
to him far lighter than those of that miserable march, which he could
recall, from Verdun to Bitche. For then he was handcuffed, and felt
himself treated with cruel injustice and tyranny. Now he was fighting
for his country; he was in the midst of friends; and not a day passed
without a sight of the Commander, upon whom he looked with a passionate
admiration and love.

He hated the fact of having to retire; but at all times it took a good
deal to lower Roy's buoyant spirits. And the men of the Reserve had too
much hard fighting on hand to admit of their growing down-hearted. Any
one of them might any day chance to win a smile of commendation from
Moore. That was worth fighting for, worth bearing anything for!

Roy soon learnt what it was to be under fire. If at first the
experience was to him, as to most men, unpleasant, he grew quickly used
to it. Before long he had the supreme joy of being personally praised
by the General for dashing courage. It seemed to Roy that day that life
lacked nothing.

He managed to start a letter to Molly, in readiness for the first
chance of getting it off. A thought had come to him that if—if
something should happen, which might happen to him as to any other
soldier, she would be glad that he had written once more to his twin.
So he set to work when a spare half-hour could be found.

                                             "Janʸ 1, 1809."

   "MY DEAR MOLLY,—Jack thinks I may be able soon to send a letter on
with despatches from Headquarters, and I wᵈ fain have one ready. So ends
the old year—truly an eventful year to me—and so begins the new year.
Jack and Bob and I keep well. There is much that I cᵈ tell you, but
have not time. An event which took place two or three days ago may,
however, be of interest to you."

   "We of the Reserve marched at daybreak for La Banessa, and Paget, as
usual, brought up the rear. That's Lord Paget, by the bye, who commands
the cavalry of the rearguard, not Brigadier-General Paget, who commands
the whole Reserve. At nine o'clock the enemy was seen to be examining a
ford near to the bridge across the Esla, which had been blown up; and
the next thing, six hundred of Napoleon's Imperial Guard came over."

   "Only a small body of the British piquet was there to oppose 'em,
and they held on gallantly, but were forced back inch by inch, fighting
hard. The English and French squadrons charged one another by turns;
and when our men were joined by a few of the 3rd Dragoons, they all
went at the enemy with such Desperate Valour as to break through their
front squadron, and to be surrounded by the French. Nothing daunted,
they charged back as fiercely, and broke through again, and so got
'emselves quick out of that scrape."

   "Then they rallied and formed up anew, and made another charge,
supported by the 10th Hussars. The French bolted before ever they
cᵈ get up with 'em, and fled through the river, hard pressed by
our brave fellows. A lot of prisoners were taken, and among 'em is
Marshal Lefébre Desnouettes, Duke of Dantzic—I say, doesn't Boney love
dukes!—commander of the Imperial Guard. Pretty big haul, that!"

   "No question but the French fought with great valour, as was to be
expected. General Lefébre says this same Guard at Austerlitz sent
thirty thousand Russians flying. They didn't send our dragoons flying
yesterday, though. 'Twas just about the other way."

   "And now for what you and Polly will like best to hear."

   "Lefébre was awfully down in the mouth at being taken prisoner,
and at his men being beaten back. He counts himself a ruined man, for,
says he, 'Buonaparte never forgives the unfortunate.' Sir John was all
kindness to the poor chap. Lefébre had a slight wound in the head;
and the first thing that Sir John did was not only to try his best to
comfort him, but to send for water, and with his own hands to wash the
wound! Can't you picture the way it was done? Wasn't it like Moore?"

   "Well, and it so happened that Jack was in luck, having been asked
to dine at the General's. So he came in for a scene which, I shᵈ
conjecture, has scarce been matched since the days of the Black Prince."

   "Just before they took their seats, Sir John turned to the French
General, who had appeared in a blazing uniform, and asked him, was
there anything he wanted? And Lefébre said never a word, but looked
down to where his sword ought to have been, that was taken away by the
private who made him surrender. Then he looked up at Sir John in a
meaning way."

   "In one instant Moore had unbuckled his own sword—'twas a fine
Eastern scimitar—and had given it to Lefébre. I wish you cᵈ have heard
Jack and Captain Napier describe it all—the graceful way in which the
thing was done, and, beyond everything, the wonderful look of kindness
and 'soldier-like sympathy' on Sir John's face. Napier tried to describe
it to me, and finished off with 'It was perfectly beautiful! But when
does Moore ever do anything that is not perfect?'"

   "Take good heed, mind you, that no word of this goes beyond
yourselves, and above all on no account risk that it shᵈ find its way
into print. For yourselves 'tis a tale worth remembering of one who is
the very Flower of Chivalry in modern days."

   "George Napier is, as Polly knows, Jack's friend, aide-de-camp
to Sir John, and brother to Major Charles Napier of the 50th, and
to William Napier of the 43rd."



CHAPTER XXXVII

A VISIT FROM MOORE BY NIGHT

ON January the 5th, at Constantino, much fighting took place, and in
the evening a heavy trouble fell upon Roy and Bob.

Jack was missing!

All searching failed to show where he was; all inquiries were without
result.

Among the sick and wounded went Roy and Bob together, and they went
in vain. On the field amid the slain, accompanied by Jack's friend,
George Napier, they hunted long in the moonlight, but with no success.
As they turned up face after face of those who had fallen, finding not
Jack's familiar features, a low-breathed "Thank God!" again and again
escaped Roy. The only explanation seemed to be that Jack had been taken
prisoner.

At Lugo the whole army was halted. The march thither had been very
severe, through deep mud and pelting rain, with great fatigue and
suffering. Collision here again came about between the English and the
French; and Moore in person led his troops, sending the enemy flying,
and handling them as they fled in a manner not to be quickly forgotten.

Then, during a two days' pause, he challenged the French to battle; and
hardly was his intention known before the British Army presented, as by
magic, a totally changed look. Stragglers came hurrying in; the ranks
were filled up; and weary, footsore, shoeless, half-starved men were
one and all in the highest spirits, eager for a fight.

But though the English were by this time reduced to only nineteen
thousand—three thousand having gone by another route to Vigo, and many
having fallen out by the way—yet Soult with his far superior numbers
did not respond. Lack of provisions made it impossible for Moore to
delay longer; and however willing he was to fight, he would not himself
force a battle.

While in the neighbourhood of Lugo, Roy found time to add a few words
to his unfinished letter:—

   "Jan. 7th, near Lugo.—We had a sharp brush with the enemy; and I am
sorely put about, for Jack has vanished. When last I set eyes on him he
was well in advance of his company, waving his sword, and shouting to
us to come on. And come on we did, and put the enemy to rout. Jack may
have fallen into their hands. Bob and I, with Napier, searched in every
direction, both among those who were wounded and those that had been
killed. But, thank God! Jack was not among them. He must, therefore,
surely be prisoner. This sheet I will not send off, even should
opportunity occur, until I can know more as to Jack. I would not awake
Polly's fears for nought; and it may be that he will even yet turn up,
unharmed."

Roy wrote these words by the light of a small lamp, lying flat upon the
ground, in a small hut which he and Bob occupied while at Lugo. Some
slight movement, as of one coming in, made him glance up with a spring
of hope. It might be only Bob, but he still thought first of Jack.

A tall cloaked figure quietly entered. Roy leaped to his feet as if he
had had an electric shock, his bewildered gaze encountering the last
face that he would at that moment have expected to see. It was a face
pale, tried, and stern, with the dark steadfast eyes which never yet
had flinched before life's battles. They did not flinch now, meeting
this heaviest of all trials to one of Moore's temperament—having to
retire before his Country's foes.

The last three years had brought sharp discipline to John Moore. Strain
had followed strain, disappointment had followed disappointment; while
through all his dauntless courage had never failed, his unconquerable
spirit had risen superior to every opposition. But the sufferings of
his men upon this march went to his very heart; and the partial loss of
discipline, in a force of which he had been so justly proud, cut him to
the quick. Despite the worst, he was not calm only, but serene. Yet now
and again, as at this moment, a shadow of deep though fleeting sadness
would fall upon him. Something in that face appealed keenly to the
young Ensign's sympathies.

Then, in a flash, dread seized upon Roy. What might this call portend?
Moore could rebuke his subordinates scathingly, crushingly, when
necessity arose. Roy felt that death would be far preferable to any
words of stern reproof from those lips. But he was distinctly not
conscious of having failed in his duty. Could it perhaps mean—ill news
of Jack?

Sir John glanced round before speaking.

"Not too luxurious quarters, Baron!" he remarked, and his smile lacked
its usual brilliance.

[Illustration: Sir John glanced round before speaking.]

"Good enough, sir," responded Roy, with the prompt cheerfulness which
from the first had marked him out in Moore's eyes. "If only Captain
Keene—"

"Ay. You are anxious about him!"

"Yes, sir; I've been able to find out nothing."

"So Napier tells me. As I was passing this way, I have looked in to set
your mind at rest. He is prisoner."

Roy drew one hasty breath. Till that moment he had not realised how
heavily the fear had weighed upon him of other than imprisonment. To
know that Jack was still in the land of the living meant much. Jack had
been very good to Roy.

"Two French prisoners brought in this afternoon have told us about him.
His leg was wounded, and his right arm broken, and when helpless he was
taken. Already, they say, he has been sent some distance beyond their
lines."

"Thank you, sir," gratefully. "I'm glad to know. It might have been
worse."

"You are writing home, perhaps? Make light of his wounds. I hope he is
not in any danger."

"Yes, sir. I am writing to my sister—ready for a chance of sending it."

Moore stood for a few seconds lost in deep thought. Then, glancing up,
he met the concerned gaze of Roy's frank grey eyes. Not frank only, not
concerned only, but full of unmistakable boyish adoration. In response
Moore's hand was laid upon Roy's arm, with one of those quick gestures
of overflowing kindness which went far to enthral the hearts of those
about him.

"I hear no report of you but what is good. Keep on as you have begun.
You are treading worthily in Ivor's steps."

Roy's power of speech failed him, with something which went far beyond
any ordinary joy. This—from Moore himself! Despite Jack's misfortunes,
Roy's world grew instantly radiant.

Moore smiled again at the boy's look, yet he sighed. There were some in
his force, and not young fellows only, of whom he could not have spoken
in such terms,—some who gave the rein to bitter discontent at having to
retreat, and who did not do their utmost to preserve discipline. But
they were not in the Reserve.

"We may hear of Keene again before long. Give your letter to Napier,
and it shall go with the first despatches that are sent on."

Then he was gone. Roy, after seeing him off, returned to his former
position, and wrote for Molly's delight those priceless words, which
never in after life could be forgotten by him. If only Denham might
have known what Moore thought of "his friend Roy!"

One more brief entry was made in the same letter before it could be
sent off:—

   "Jan. 10, Betanzos.—We came hither by a night-march from Lugo, thus
evading the French, who would seem to have been somewhat awed by Sir
John's fearless defiance of 'em at Lugo. For some hours our rearguard
was not harassed as usual, and the enemy's advanced guard did not get
up with us till twenty-four hours or more after our start. Since we
left our camp-fires burning, they doubtless did not know till dawn that
we had given them the slip. It may be, too, that after what had passed
they were in no such vast hurry to follow."

The day after Roy had written these words Coruña was reached.

As they drew near to the coast, Moore, quitting his post with the
Reserve, went forward, passing regiment after regiment, and anxiously
scanning the distant sea for the transports which he hoped to find
awaiting him.

But they were not there.

During the greater part of a fortnight he had been incessantly at work,
conducting this most arduous retreat, bringing his Army through dangers
and difficulties innumerable. Perpetual fighting had been the order of
the day. Yet not once had the regiments of the Reserve, either horse or
foot, been beaten; not once had the rearguard quailed.

Seventy or eighty thousand soldiers, trained veterans of Napoleon,
at first under Napoleon himself, and then under two of his most
experienced commanders, had striven hard to overtake Moore, to outflank
him, to cut off his little force of twenty-three thousand men; but they
had been baffled.

More than two hundred and fifty miles of rough country had been
traversed in bleakest wintry weather; and the Army reached Coruña,
somewhat lessened in numbers, it is true, yet absolutely unbroken.

Baggage had had to be abandoned or destroyed for lack of means to
convey it further, and a few small cannon had had to be left behind for
that same reason. But not one single British gun had been captured in
fight; not one single standard or military trophy of any kind had been
taken.



CHAPTER XXXVIII

THE BATTLE OF CORUÑA

WELL might Moore cast anxious glances towards the harbour of Coruña,
where the vessels from Vigo should have been. They had been delayed by
contrary winds, and their failure to arrive in time was a most serious
matter. The British Army, brought thus far in safety, would lie without
the means of escape in a narrow trap, between Scylla and Charybdis,
hemmed in by the pitiless ocean on one side, by the ever-increasing
hordes of the enemy on the other.

With unfaltering courage he at once set himself to examine the
position, assigning the troops to various quarters, some in the town of
Coruña, some in villages hard by. A range of hills, three or four miles
off, would have been the right line of defence; but Moore had not men
enough to occupy it. He saw at once that, should he attempt to do so,
the French might turn his flank and cut him off from embarkation.

That post of vantage had to be left to the foe. Moore was obliged to
content himself with a lower ridge, nearer to the walls, which was with
all speed put into a state of defence.

A short rest was given to the soldiers; new muskets and ammunition
were-supplied; and the officers strenuously exerted themselves to
restore discipline. But this was no longer difficult. When once the
Army stood at bay, facing the foe, every trace of insubordination
vanished.

So desperate did the condition of things seem to be for the English,
with the transports not yet come, and with a greatly superior force
occupying a greatly superior position, that, though Moore's heart never
failed him, the hearts of some did sink at this juncture, even of brave
men, high in rank.

Moore called no council of war; he asked no man's opinion. But certain
of his Generals ventured to offer unsought advice. They put before him
the extreme unlikelihood that they could long resist an enemy coming
down upon them from the heights. They pictured the heavy loss of life
which must result from any attempt to embark on the transports during
such attacks. Then they suggested that, since affairs had reached so
perilous a stage, it might be well to send a flag of truce to Soult,
asking permission, on honourable terms, to depart unmolested.

Moore disdainfully flung the counsel from him, without an instant's
parley. Capitulate! Never! If the French came on, let them come! He
would fight to the last! The Generals bowed to his fiery decision, and
said no more.

Coruña had been reached on the 11th of January, and all through the
12th Moore was hard at work, preparing for the battle which might
be fought. Everything was thought of; every possible precaution was
taken. He reviewed the troops, and by his own splendid confidence and
dauntless air he breathed fresh energy into their jaded ranks.

Indomitable though he was, the strain of the last few weeks had
told upon him heavily. At daybreak he was once more in the saddle,
reconnoitering the enemy's camp, and visiting every part of his own;
but before midday he came back to Headquarters, utterly exhausted.

Rest had become a necessity before he could do more; and for two hours
prostration had the upper hand. Then he rallied, sat up, called for
paper, and in his terse easy modern English, singularly free from the
tricks of expression peculiar to his time, he wrote his last despatch.

Next day, the 14th, some cannonading took place; but the French did
not move. They were still concentrating their forces, having suffered
greatly, like the British, in those terrible marches.

In the evening, at last, the transports appeared; and all next day the
embarkation of the sick and wounded, as well as of the cavalry, was
going on. Around Coruña, Moore had found, cavalry could be of little
use.

By noon on the 16th everything was in train. Unless they should be
attacked by Soult, the whole British Army would be on board that night.
Moore placed all arrangements for the embarkation in the hands of
Colonel Anderson; and again he went off to review his troops, finding
them in excellent order and in the highest spirits.

To a man they wished for nothing better than a battle. That question,
however, was left to Soult for decision. No matter how intensely Moore
himself might long for a victory over the enemy, he still would not
make a first move. He knew well that, in the then condition of Spain,
even a battle won could do little practical good to the cause in hand.
It might cover his name with glory. But from first to last a higher aim
than glory for self had been before Moore's eyes.

Between fourteen and fifteen thousand infantry now remained on land, to
oppose the twenty thousand already entrenched on the opposite heights;
and further French reinforcements were constantly arriving. Moore's
cannon were far inferior to those of the French, alike in number and
in weight of metal. The French guns, moreover, dominated the English
position.

At two o'clock, as Moore was on his way to the outposts, a messenger
came from General Hope, to inform him that the enemy "was getting under
arms;" and radiant delight glowed in his eyes when he found that a
battle was to be forced upon him. He spoke his gladness, regretting
only that the lateness of the hour, upon a short winter's day, would
hardly leave him time to make the most of that victory which he
expected to win.

Then he spurred away, full gallop, to the field. Soon the roar of
cannon told that action was begun; and in a little while, along the
whole front, both armies were hotly engaged.

Upon the main ridge of the English position Moore had placed two
divisions, Baird's on the right, Hope's on the left. A third division,
that of Fraser, occupied high ground well in rear of the right, to
prevent any possibility of the French making their way to Coruña by a
road which ran in that direction, and so cutting off the British force
from the town.

Paget's division was held in reserve behind the ridge; and here for a
while Roy chafed impatiently, fearing to have no share in the fighting
that day. Even had it been so, the Reserve would have had small cause
to complain, since they had borne the lion's share of danger during the
retreat. But their turn was to come.

The first and heaviest brunt of the onset fell upon Baird's division,
more especially upon the 4th Regiment, the 50th, which was commanded by
Charles Napier and Charles Stanhope, and the 42nd Highlanders.

With their usual vehement swiftness the French advanced in separate
columns against the right, the left, and the centre of the British
line; while another powerful column sought to pass, as Moore had
foreseen, down the valley which lay between Baird's and Fraser's
divisions, towards Coruña; and yet a fifth column waited in reserve.

But the peril of that fourth column's advance was no sooner seen than
it was met. The right wing of the 4th British Regiment, on the extreme
right of the ridge, was promptly thrown back, so as to take in flank
the adventurous French column which was seeking thus boldly to turn the
English position; and into the column was poured a crushing fire.

Moore, alert, cool, intent, watching every movement, called out, "That
was exactly what I wanted to be done!"

Nor was this all. General Paget, with his Reserve, advanced upon the
column, and doubled it completely up.

Roy had his chance then, and he used it. His was the honour of bearing
the King's Colour belonging to his regiment. The Royal and the
Regimental Colours are, as we know, always consecrated with religious
ceremony at the time of presentation; and they are looked upon with the
most intense pride and veneration by every British soldier. Not least
were they so regarded by Roy Baron.

Right proudly he carried his Royal burden, exposing himself with all
that reckless gallantry which is natural to the British officer. He
pressed forward with an energy which carried him well to the front,
even in that rushing tide of resolute men. They clashed with the solid
column in fierce shock; and by "the conquering violence" of Paget's
charge, the French, already shaken by the heavy flanking fire they had
received, were brought to a standstill. They began to waver, to turn,
and to retreat; and the retreat soon quickened into flight.

Yet the fighting continued; and as the British still swept like a
whirlwind onward, groups of Frenchmen would turn and resist, vainly
striving to stem that irresistible Anglo-Saxon torrent.

Roy found himself and his charge an object of especial attack by some
half-dozen furious Frenchmen, maddened to be once again, as through the
fortnight past, repelled by this invincible foe. All around Roy were
fighting hard. He gripped the staff with his left hand, and guarded it
valiantly, using his sword right and left to very good purpose. Mere
lad though he was, more than one of the enemy went down before those
vigorous thrusts.

With the vain hope of capturing the Colour, a French officer rode into
the mêlée, and his sabre descended in one swift sweep. Roy saw the
coming stroke, but his guard was only in time to ward off the blow
aimed at his head.

The blade slashed deep into his right arm, near the shoulder, and Roy's
sword fell from powerless fingers.

By this time a dozen comrades had closed round the Colour, and a dozen
British swords and bayonets were at work. The French officer paid for
his gallantry with his life. Roy was again pressing onward, hardly
realising that he was wounded, till he found a crimson stream flowing
over him, and felt his knees falter with a sense of overpowering
weakness.

"Go back, Baron. You've done bravely," the Colonel's voice said at his
side, in tones of approval. "Sergeant Grey will take the colour."

Roy tried to say cheerily, "No, sir, it's nothing—I'm all right—" but
the words somehow refused to come, and the battlefield seemed to be
receding to a vast distance. He was vaguely conscious that his precious
burden had gone into somebody else's hands, and that the regiment had
passed on at the double, leaving him behind. Then he came out of a
mist, his ears buzzing, and his head going round.

For a moment he fancied himself back in a little French cottage, deep
in a wood, with Jean Paulet by his side. "Thank you, Jean—I'm all
right," he said faintly.

But the roar of cannon, the rattle of musketry, the shouts of charging
soldiers, dispersed that dream. He opened his eyes to find himself
lying on the ground. One of his men, Private Foster, was busily
fastening a rough-and-ready bandage round his arm.

"Think you'll do now, sir? It don't bleed so much. Only a flesh wound,
but it's gone pretty deep."

"O I'm all right." Roy managed this time to say the words clearly. "I
wish I could have kept up with them. Are you hurt?"

"Only my foot, sir. The Colonel told me I was to look after you. He
said you was to go to the town."

Roy was beginning to be aware of pretty sharp pain in the slashed
arm. It was his first wound, and he might be excused for certain sick
sensations, having fought as pluckily as an Englishman may. He pulled
himself to a sitting posture, and looked round. The regiments of the
Reserve were by this time far ahead, literally sweeping the whole
valley clear of the shattered remnants, which but a short space back
had formed a powerful column.

Roy waved his cap over his head with his left hand, and gave vent to a
hearty though rather faint "Hurrah!"

"I think I can walk now all right," he said. "Don't mind about me,
Foster. Your foot is bad."

"I can hobble a bit, sir. I'd sooner see you on your way. You'd maybe
get the bandage wrong, and set it bleeding afresh." Roy's men were not
a little fond of him.

And the two set off together on a long and painful trudge to Coruña.

Meanwhile, Sir John Moore, satisfied that all would go well in the
valley, turned his attention elsewhere.

The French attack was directed with greatest force against the three
regiments already named as posted upon the right of the ridge. Their
piquets, which occupied the little village of Elvina beyond the ridge,
were driven in by the force of the enemy's onset, and Elvina for a time
fell into the hands of the French.

This could not be allowed, and orders were given that the 42nd and the
50th should expel the foe from the village. Moore, always to be found
at the point of greatest danger, was at hand. His voice could now be
heard to ring out in his characteristic challenge—

"Highlanders—remember Egypt!"

Like greyhounds from the leash, in response to those beloved tones,
they leaped to the charge, carrying everything before them. Moore, in
his passionate ardour, charged with them, and he told the men that he
was "well pleased" with their conduct.

Before Moore appeared, the officers and men of the 50th
Regiment—ordered to advance with the 42nd—had been eagerly looking out
for him, realising that this would be the crux of the English position,
and feeling one and all that "under him they could not be beaten—"
that, if only Moore were present, victory was absolutely secure. "Where
is he? Where is the General?" was heard in restless murmurs along the
line.

As they asked the question he came, bearing down upon them at headlong
speed on his cream-coloured charger, a fiery animal, with flying black
mane and tail tossed in the breeze. The force with which Sir John
reined in flung him forward almost upon the horse's neck, while his
head was thrown back, and he examined the enemy with a gaze of such
extraordinary and searching intensity, that Charles Napier, in after
years, seeking to picture the scene, could find no language with which
he might fitly describe that look.

Without a word Moore then galloped off, but he soon returned; and
hereabouts it was that, as he was speaking to Major Napier, a round
shot from the heavy French guns on the height struck the ground between
them.

Both horses swerved sharply, but Moore instantly urged his back to the
same spot, asking calmly if Napier were hurt, and receiving a quiet
"No, sir."

Then, while he watched the spirited charge of the 50th Regiment, led by
Napier and Stanhope, he exclaimed—"Well done, Fiftieth! Well done, my
Majors!"

The French were driven out of Elvina with heavy loss, both regiments
pursuing them beyond the village into ground much broken by stone
walls. By this time the British were without supports; and the French,
having received strong reinforcements, rallied and turned upon them
with fresh fury. Napier went too far in advance of his men, received
five wounds, and was taken prisoner; and Stanhope was killed.

Moore, grappling with the danger, hurried up a battalion of the Guards
to reinforce the 50th, which was being slowly forced back, and the
42nd, which had come to an end of its powder and shot. He galloped to
the latter regiment, and again his voice rang out with inspiring energy—

"My brave 42nd, join your comrades. The ammunition is coming. And you
have your bayonets still!"

That was enough. The 42nd had thought that it was being relieved by
the Guards; but armed or unarmed, the men would have gone anywhere
for Moore. Once again without ammunition, yet undaunted, with fierce
impetuosity they dashed against the foe.

Both here and throughout the line fighting raged furiously. In all
directions the British were holding their own, and signs of approaching
victory were clear.

Those signs came true. A little later, and the French were driven well
beyond Elvina. On the left of the British position they not only were
repulsed with very severe loss, but were attacked in their own position
by the conquering English, and were followed even into the villages
beyond their ridge.

But before matters had advanced thus far, and while the 50th and the
42nd were still hard beset and strenuously resisting—something else
happened, of terrible import to England.

Captain Hardinge came up to report to Sir John that the Guards were
advancing. And as he spoke the words, as he pointed out the position of
the Guards—a round shot from the battery opposite struck Moore, hurling
him to the ground.



CHAPTER XXXIX

MOORE'S LAST VICTORY

IN an instant Sir John Moore half raised himself, gazing still with
concentrated earnestness, as if nothing had happened, towards the
Highland regiment, now hotly engaged. Not a sigh was heard. Not a
muscle in his face quivered.

Hardinge had sprung down, and Moore's right hand grasped his firmly.
When Hardinge, seeing his anxiety for the 42nd, exclaimed, "They are
advancing—" Moore's eyes brightened into their fullest radiance.

Then Colonel Graham hurried to the spot. So placid and unchanged was
the General's look, that for a moment he hoped it might be no more than
an accidental fall from his horse. The next moment he saw—and he rode
off at utmost speed for a surgeon.

It was an awful wound. Almost the whole left shoulder was carried
away; the arm was all but separated from the body; the ribs over that
intrepid heart were broken; the flesh and muscles were fearfully torn
and mangled. Hardinge made an attempt with his sash to check the flow
of blood; but with so extensive an injury little could be done.

Moore was then gently lifted upon a blanket; and all the while he still
intently watched the struggle, as if his own state were a matter of no
importance.

For a moment his attention was recalled from the front. His sword
became entangled when the soldiers moved him, and the hilt went into
the wound. Captain Hardinge began to unbuckle it, but he was at once
checked, Moore saying in his usual voice, with calm distinctness—

"It is as well as it is. I had rather it should go out of the field
with me."

So extraordinary was his composure, that Hardinge began to hope,
even against hope, that the wound might after all prove not to be
mortal—that the General might even yet be spared to his country. He
faltered something of the kind; and Moore turned from gazing at the
battle to inspect gravely his own injuries.

"No, Hardinge, I feel that to be impossible," he replied. "You need not
go with me. Report to General Hope that I am wounded, and carried to
the rear."

He was slowly borne towards Coruña, a sergeant and ten soldiers of the
Guards and of the 42nd being told off for this service. Two surgeons
came hastening to meet him. They had been engaged with the arm of
his next in command, Sir David Baird, which was badly shattered;
but on hearing what had happened to his chief, Baird hurried them
off, and they left his arm half dressed. Moore, who was losing blood
rapidly, observed; "You can be of no service to me. Go to the wounded
soldiers—you may be of use to them." But this unselfish order could not
be obeyed.

Again and again in their sad progress he desired a halt, that he might
watch what was going on, and might listen to the fainter sound of the
enemy's musketry, as the French were driven back.

Presently they were overtaken by a spring wagon, containing a wounded
officer; and here again a slight pause took place, during which Roy
Baron joined the mournful cavalcade, not yet knowing what it meant.

A question put by the officer in the wagon, "Who was that in the
blanket?" brought an answer which sent a sickening shock through Roy's
whole frame.

Would not Sir John like to be placed in the wagon? The officer
earnestly suggested this. Moore did not refuse, but he looked at one of
the Highlanders, and asked his opinion—would the wagon or the blanket
be best? The man advised the latter. "It will not shake you so much,
sir," he said; "and we can keep step, and carry you more easy."

"I think so too," Sir John quietly said, and they went on their way as
before. By this time the hardy Guardsmen and Highlanders who carried
him were one and all in tears.

Roy came close to the younger of the two surgeons, with whom he was
slightly acquainted, and murmured, "Wounded!"

"Badly," was the low answer.

"But not—not—He'll get over it!"

Roy knew what the silence meant. After a break, the surgeon said, "We
have not examined the wound yet. You are hurt."

"It's nothing. Just a cut. But that he—that he—"

The surgeon looked in pity on that boyish face of despair.

"You'd better keep with us, Baron. I'll patch you up by and by. Don't
give in. Things may be better than we fear."

For a moment Roy had been in danger of collapsing. This suggestion
revived his failing energies; and he kept steadily up with the little
procession till the streets of Coruña were reached. Before the door
of Moore's house the bearers paused. Colonel Anderson, the devoted
friend and comrade of Sir John through twenty-one years past, met them
outside, speechless with distress. This was the third time that he had
seen Moore carried, wounded, from a field of battle; and it was the
last.

Moore pressed his hand tightly. "Anderson, don't leave me," he
murmured, and the words reached Roy, as he came close behind. An
appealing glance at the surgeon brought a whispered response, "Yes;
come in."

Then, as Moore's faithful French servant, Francois, appeared, in blank
horror, with fast-dropping tears, Moore smiled.

"Mon ami, this is nothing," he said.

Roy crept silently to a corner of the room, in which Moore was laid
upon a mattress. He felt crushed with the blow, bodily weak, mentally
hopeless. That Moore should die seemed to his young spirit to be the
end of everything. And from the look on the faces around, from Moore's
own ineffable serenity, he read the truth, even before the surgeons
had fully examined the wound. It needed no long examination. Medical
science had no power to grapple with such injuries as the cannon-ball
had worked.

During the process Roy crouched down, his face hidden. Presently his
arm was touched by the friendly surgeon.

"Come into the next room, Baron."

"I can't go away," muttered Roy.

"You shall come back. I want to take a look at your arm."

They were near the door, and Roy submitted, caring little at the moment
whether his own hurts were great or small. He bore the surgeon's
handling without a wince.

"Nothing serious, I'm glad to find. A clean cut, and you'll soon be
right again. The loss of blood makes you feel a trifle queer, of
course."

Roy crept once more silently into the room. He passed near enough to
the mattress to receive one last kind glance and smile, which all
but broke him down. But by this time Moore's agony had become so
overwhelming, that he was unable to speak, and his face had grown
deathly pale. Colonel Anderson from first to last remained close by his
side, supporting him as he lay.

After a while he so far mastered the torture as to utter one short
sentence after another, at intervals.

"Anderson, you know that I have always wished to die in this way," came
first. As the officers of his staff appeared, one by one, he put the
same question to each, "Are the French beaten?"

Next, with unconscious pathos, read now in the light of after
misrepresentations—

"I hope the people of England will be satisfied! I hope my Country will
do me justice."

Presently there was the thought of his own relatives.

"Anderson—you will see my friends, as soon as you can. Tell
them—everything. Say to my mother—"

For the first time self-control failed. His voice broke, and his
features were strongly agitated. The love between that son and that
mother had been of no common kind. He was utterly unable to give the
message that he wished, and he turned to another subject.

"Hope—Hope—I have much to say to him—but—cannot get it out. Are Colonel
Graham and all my aides-de-camp safe?"

Anderson hastily signed to others not to tell him that one of the
latter had been dangerously wounded, knowing well the great affection
which existed between Moore and his whole staff. The question was
evaded.

He then mentioned that he had made his will, and had in it remembered
his servants. "Colbourne has my will—and all my papers," he said.
And when Major Colbourne came in, Moore greeted him with exceeding
kindness, turning to say with difficulty to Sir John Hope, "Hope, go to
the Duke of York, and say he ought to give Colbourne a regiment."

He asked again, "Were the French beaten?"

"In every direction," he was told.

"It's a great satisfaction for me to know we have beaten the French,"
he remarked. "Is Paget in the room?"

Anderson replied in the negative.

"Remember me to him. It is General Paget I mean. He is a fine fellow."

A little later came the words, "I feel myself so strong—I fear I shall
be long dying. It is great uneasiness—it is great pain."

This was the only approach to a complaint which passed those patient
lips. But the strength of which he spoke was that of the indomitable
will, not of the shattered body; for already life was ebbing fast, and
the shadows were closing around.

Yet surely for him, beyond the shadows, waited a Light Divine!

He met the last enemy as he had met his earthly foes, as indeed he
had ofttimes faced the former, with unshaken composure and without
dread, no more startled by the summons than if he had been called upon
to cross the English Channel. And, as always, his thoughts were for
others, not for himself.

Some grateful words were addressed to the surgeons, thanking them
for their efforts to give him ease. He spoke kindly to two more
aides-de-camp who came in. One of these was Captain James Stanhope,
brother to Charles Stanhope killed that day, and to Lady Hester
Stanhope, Moore's friend. Stanhope's eyes met those of the dying
soldier, and Moore said distinctly—

"Stanhope—remember me to your sister."

This was his last utterance. He sank into silence, pressing the hand of
Anderson closely to his side. A few minutes later, calmly and without a
struggle, the grand spirit triumphed over death and passed away.

And in that still chamber might be heard the sounds of smothered
convulsive weeping. The younger officers present broke utterly down,
while the elder men looked on with bowed heads, scarcely better able to
restrain their anguish; and Roy's sobs mingled with those of the rest.

It was a scene that he could never in all his after life forget.
Colonel Anderson still knelt, supporting the lifeless head, and gazing
with parted lips into that quiet face, which for twenty-one years
had been the centre and the illumination of his being; his look of
woe beyond the power of words to describe. On the other side of the
mattress, one in sorrow with all these mourning Englishmen, was the
faithful and devoted Francois. French by birth, he cared for little in
the world besides this idolised master, over whom he despairingly hung,
his hands clasped together, his face matching in pallor those placid
features.

For one of the noblest of men was gone from their midst that hour; and
a heavy shadow fell upon the victorious British Army.

   "Dark lay the field of slain; the battle's strife was o'er,
    That shook Coruña's hills, and rent the Iberian shore;
    Dim twilight veiled the scene of glory and of death,
       Till o'er the blood-stained snow
       The moon, pale, trembling, slow,
       Revealed each crimson wreath."

   "Low on the victor-field the Warrior Chief was laid;
    His eye still sought the foe, his hand still grasped the blade;
    Triumphant was his smile, though dim his closing eye—
       While bending o'er the slain,
       His mournful gallant train
       Learnt how the brave should die."

      *     *     *     *     *     *     *

   "No sculptured trophy rose to deck his honoured head,
    Or monumental urn, to mark the Mighty Dead;
    No lettered scroll to point the pilgrim soldier's way—
       The musing foe to greet,
       And guide his wandering feet
       To where the warrior lay."

   "But o'er his loved remains were choicest honours shed,
    Tears such as Heroes weep bedewed his lowly bed;
    A deep responsive sigh from Albion's woe-struck isle
       Swelled o'er the Atlantic wave,
       And decked his early grave—
       Who for his Country fought, who for his Country fell!" ¹

   ¹ Written in memory of Moore by William Stark of Edinburgh in 1813.



CHAPTER XL

A WARRIOR TAKING HIS REST

THE rapid fall of darkness made it difficult to pursue the enemy, who
at every point had been worsted. General Hope, knowing that large
reinforcements might be expected to arrive soon in the French camp,
decided to carry out Sir John Moore's plan of immediate embarkation.

At ten o'clock that night the march began, brigade after brigade
leaving the field of battle, and silently going on board one transport
after another. So complete had been all previous arrangements, that, by
morning light, almost the whole British Army was on board.

Meanwhile, anxious consultation had taken place as to what should
be done with the beloved remains of the Commander. Colonel Anderson
settled the question by stating that Moore had often told him his
wish—"if he ever fell in battle, to be buried where he had fallen." It
was decided that a grave should be dug on the rampart of the Coruña
citadel.

At midnight the body was reverently borne into the citadel, by Colonel
Graham, Major Colbourne, and the aides-de-camp. For a few hours it lay
in Colonel Graham's room.

In the early morning firing was heard. It was then determined not
to put off the funeral any longer, lest a fresh attack should be
impending, and the officers should be compelled to hasten away before
paying the last honours to their Chief.

Jack's friend, George Napier, had arrived upon the sad scene of the
night before, just when all was over—too late for any of those last
words, which would have been to him a lifelong treasure. After Anderson
and Francois, probably none present grieved more bitterly than George
Napier. But when he found Roy sobbing hopelessly in the corner of the
room, he took him away, and let him stay in his own quarters. And
when the funeral took place Roy was allowed to be one of the party in
attendance.

Not at dead of night, but at eight o'clock in the chill morning of a
January day, and in the grave prepared by his own men, Sir John Moore
was laid. No coffin could be procured. The body had not been undressed.
He wore still the General's uniform in which he had fought his last
battle, and—

   "He lay like a warrior taking his rest,
      With his martial cloak around him."

That same cloak, in which but a few days earlier, he had visited Roy in
the little hut at Lugo—had laid his kind hand upon the boy's arm—had
spoken never to be forgotten words of praise—had smiled upon him—

Roy dared not let himself think of all this. Burning, blinding tears
forced their way to his eyes—and not to his only,—as he gazed his last
upon that perfect face, in its pale, sublime repose.

Moore was carried by the "Officers of the Family," who would allow no
other hands to do for him these last sad services. The Burial Service
was read by the Chaplain. And what was in the hearts of them all has
been told, in words that cannot be improved upon, by that noble Elegy
which is Moore's best monument:—

   "We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
      And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
    That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
      And we far away on the billow."

   "Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
      And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him—
    But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
      In the grave where a Briton has laid him."

   "Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
      From the field of his fame fresh and gory,
    We carved not a line and we raised not a stone,
      But we left him alone with his glory." ¹

Every man in the Army had lost a friend that day; and many a one
besides Roy felt with passionate grief that the world, without John
Moore in it, would be for him a changed place thenceforward.

Hard things were spoken of him after he was gone; and upbraidings
indeed were uttered—not by the brave foe, who honoured Moore, and
wished to raise a stone to his memory, but by an ungrateful section of
his own countrymen, because, forsooth, with an army of twenty-three
thousand men, he had not met and crushed two hundred thousand. We know
better now. In the cold clear light of history such fogs are driven
away.

Yet, even in these later days, have we made enough of the name of John
Moore?

   ¹ By the Rev. C. Wolfe, about 1817.

Have we thought enough of the man, of whom Napoleon in the zenith
of his fame could declare that he was the only General left, fit to
contend with himself?—and against whose twenty-three thousand men he
counted it needful to bring in a fierce rush over eighty thousand,
failing even then in his purpose? Have we thought enough of the
man, under whom the future Wellington wished nothing better than to
serve?—and about whose "towering fame" the sober historian of the
Peninsular War wrote in terms of unstinted praise? Have we thought
enough of the man who, while the bravest of the brave, was also the
most blameless and the most beloved of men; against whom Detraction had
no word to utter, save that he stood up almost too strenuously for his
Country's honour, and that he did not accomplish impossibilities?

If not, it is surely time that his countrymen should begin to "do him
justice!"

But for that fatal cannon-ball—who can say?—would Wellington have
become the foremost man in Europe, or would he have been second to
Moore? It might have been Moore, not Wellington, who turned the tide
of Napoleon's success? ¹ It was Moore who stemmed that tide, with his
spirited counter-march and splendid retreat, drawing the enemy after
him, until he stood at bay upon the coast, and hurled back the onset of
the flower of Napoleon's army.

 ¹ These sentences were written before Lord Wolseley's speech at
Dumfries, in 1898, in which he was reported as having said—"There could
be little doubt in the minds of most soldiers who knew what Moore
did, that, had he not been killed at the Battle of Coruña, he would
have been the great Commander who led the Peninsular War; and it was
quite possible that that great man, whom they all worshipped, the Duke
of Wellington, would not have been heard of. He did not say that to
depreciate the services of the Duke of Wellington, who had been a rock
of strength to this country. But, possibly, had Sir John Moore lived,
his name would have been blazoned on the scroll of fame as the man who
won the great battle which crushed Napoleon's power at Waterloo."

Of Moore's personal valour, of his indomitable courage, of his intense
patriotism, no voice was ever heard in question. To his consummate
generalship, his mingled audacity and calculation, this marvellous
Retreat bore ample witness. But for many years it was not understood by
the mass of the English people. Napoleon, Soult, and Ney gauged him far
more truly than did the average Englishman of his day.



CHAPTER XLI

AT VERDUN ONCE MORE

As a heavy stone falling into a pond sends waves circling outward to a
distance, so the death of Sir John Moore sent many a wave of sorrow to
the hearts of men, north and south, east and west.

One such wave slowly found its way to the distant town of Verdun, where
still languished the détenus taken captive in 1803, together with many
prisoners of war on parole sent thither.

News in those days travelled with deliberation, and prisoners travelled
with greater deliberation still. But a day arrived, though not till
many weeks after the Battle of Coruña, when Jack Keene found himself
within the ramparts of Verdun.

It was early spring, and he carried his right arm in a sling. When he
moved, too, a distinct limp might be seen. He had just been to report
himself at the citadel, and he now stood outside, meditating on his
next move.

A young man, with a keen and clever face, passed him quickly, then
pulled up, turning in his direction.

"I beg your pardon. You're English. Have you just arrived here?"

"Yes. Prisoner. You're English too. That's right," said Jack heartily.

"Can I be of any service to you? Have you friends in the place?"

"I hope so. Could you direct me to Colonel Baron's house, or lodgings?"

"Certainly. I know him well. My name is Curtis."

"Ah! I have heard that name from Roy Baron."

"Roy and I were great friends when he was here. Anything you can tell
me about him will be welcome."

Curtis looked questioningly, and Jack answered the look.

"My name is Keene. Roy and I have been through the Campaign in Spain
together. On the retreat I was wounded and taken prisoner."

Curtis held out his hand, to be grasped by Jack's left. "You have
travelled all the way from Spain?"

"With a convoy of prisoners—yes. Been a good while about it too. First
part of the way in a wagon, after that on horseback. Tell me how they
are here. I have heard nothing lately."

"I'll come and show you the way. The Colonel keeps all right. Looks
older than he used, that's all. Mrs. Baron is well. One fancied at the
time that Roy's being sent to Bitche would kill her outright; but it
didn't. Having to devote herself to Ivor was a mercy in disguise, I
don't doubt. Kept her from dwelling on her own trouble. It was a vast
relief to them all when the kind fellow who got Roy away came and told
them he'd seen the boy safe on board a vessel for England. He was well
rewarded by the Colonel, as you may suppose; not that he did it for
reward. But, of course, we don't breathe a word about that in Verdun,
for the fellow's own sake. Only, as I know them well, and as I know you
belong to them—"

Jack made a gesture of assent. "Ivor was ill, was he not?"

"I dare say he would have been so anyhow, after that march from
Valenciennes; but the arrest of Roy was a finishing stroke. You won't
find him looking good for much now. I suppose hardly anything could
have knocked him down like the death of Sir John Moore. It is a fearful
loss to the country. No man living could have been worse spared."

Curtis paused, cast a glance at Jack, and changed the subject.

Presently they reached the house where still the Barons lived, as since
their first arrival in Verdun.

"By the bye, I'm not sure whether you'll find them in," he said. "The
Colonel said at appel that he was going to take Ivor, with his wife,
for a drive in the country, hoping it might do him good. It was worth
trying. But I think they must have returned before now."

"You're allowed to go where you will?"

"Why, no. Douceurs are efficacious, however. Will you let me show you
the way upstairs?" Jack hesitated. "No—I understand. Of course you'd
rather see them alone first; and I did not mean to go in. But you can't
mistake the room. First landing, first door to the right."

Curtis vanished, and Jack, obeying the directions, came to a door
slightly ajar. He pushed it wider, and went softly in.

It was a good-sized salon; empty, except for the presence of one man
writing at a side-table. By build and bearing Jack recognised Ivor
instantly; but finding himself unnoticed, he had a fancy not at once
to make his presence known. He drew a few steps nearer, and then stood
motionless. He had a very good side-view of the other.

Jack studied him gravely, recalling the splendid physique and health of
the young Guardsman six years earlier. The physique was in a sense the
same, and the fine carriage of head and shoulders remained unaltered;
but the sharpened delicacy and pallor of the face impressed Jack
painfully, as did a streak of grey hair above the temple, a stamp of
habitual lassitude upon the brow, and the thinness of the strongly-made
right hand, which moved the pen. Jack began dimly to understand what
the long waiting and patience of these years had been.

Ivor seemed to become conscious of Jack's gaze. He laid down his pen,
glanced round, and started up. "Jack! Is it possible?"

"Just arrived," remarked Jack, with an insouciance which he was far
from feeling. "Come across Spain and France. Yes—wounded—but I'm
getting all right. Always was a tough subject, you know."

"Where were you taken?"

"On the march, at Lugo. Two days off from Coruña. Got too far ahead of
my men. Wounded in the leg first; then, as I was defending myself, a
musket-ball broke my right arm. So I had to give in."

"You are lame still. Sit down. You a prisoner too! I hardly know how to
believe it."

"Fortune of war, as our French friends would say. I've no right to
complain. Had my share, though 'tis a shame to be cut off from more of
it. Den, you are looking very far from well."

Denham did not heed the words. "What of Roy?" he asked. "We have had no
home-news for ages."

"Roy is Ensign in my regiment. Didn't you know even that? Been with me
through this Campaign. He and I were in the Reserve—under Moore!" —in a
lower voice. "You have heard—?"

"No particulars. The fact of a battle at Coruña; and—Tell me all you
can."

"You know that it was victory?"

"I know!" in a stirred deep tone. "Not from the papers. French papers
never admit defeat. But—under him—how could it be otherwise?"

"It never was otherwise! Never once!"

Denham rested his face on both hands.

"Tell me all you know. We are cut off from everything here."

Jack's information was but partial. Before starting for France he had
been kept by his wounds some time in the neighbourhood of Lugo, and
thus a few details of that heroic death had filtered round to him. It
was hard work for Jack to repeat them in a steady voice. Once Ivor
raised his head, and the dumb white sorrow of his look all but overcame
Jack's fortitude. Then Ivor returned to his former position, and Jack
went on resolutely.

"That's about all," he said at length. "As much as I've heard yet ....
He was his own grand self to the last! ... It was the death he would
have chosen to die .... He always wished for it ... On the field, in
the moment of victory! ... But the loss to us—to England! ... The
best!—the noblest—!"

Jack could say no more. Silence followed.

"Soffit is a brave fellow. I heard that he was going to put up a
memorial-stone—to him!"

Silence again. Denham had not stirred.

"He saved the Army and balked Napoleon. None except we who were there
could know the true state of things—the hopeless inefficiency of the
Spaniards. If he had had treble the number of men and enough money,
England might have told a very different tale to-day. What could be
done by mortal man, under such circumstances, he did."

Renewed silence. Jack watched the other seriously.

"You're not fit for any more of this. When did you hear last from home?
So long! And you didn't know that Roy was in Spain? Smart young officer
too. He came in more than once for particular notice." Jack found
himself verging on another allusion to the name which filled their
thoughts, and he turned to a fresh subject. "This Commandant of yours
at Verdun—Wirion—must be a brute, judging from reports of him in the
English papers."

"He—was."

"Not here now?"

"Courcelles is the present Commandant. Wirion went too far. There were
some scandalous cases—young Englishmen fleeced to the tune of five
thousand pounds."

"What a vile shame!"

"Some of us made a stir, and facts were carried to headquarters. Wirion
was suspended, and he received a hint that he might as well put himself
out of the way. He acted upon the hint."

"You mean that he—"

"Shot himself."

"Present man any improvement?"

"Oppressions are a degree more carefully veiled."

Denham lifted his face from his hands with a sudden movement. "What am
I thinking about? You must be in want of food."

"No; it's all right. I went to a cafe on arrival. Your next meal is
soon enough for me."

The absence of any inquiry after Polly was arousing Jack's wonder. At
first, in the engrossing interest of that other subject, he had not so
much noticed Denham's silence, but now each minute it grew more marked.
Should he speak of Polly himself? No, that would not do. The first
mention ought to be from Ivor. So Jack decided, not realising that his
own silence might be misconstrued. Some questions as to his wounds
followed. Denham had moved to the large arm-chair, and was leaning back
with a spiritless look. Jack wondered anew, and at length he could not
resist putting forth a slight feeler.

"Are there no folks at home of whom you would fain hear?"

Ivor took the hint, looked straight at him, and said—"Is Polly married
yet?"

Jack's breath was taken away. He was like one who has received a slap
in the face. This—from Ivor!

"Upon—my—word!" he ejaculated. "You are cool, Denham!"

"I have at least a right to ask the question."

For a moment Jack was very nearly in a passion, but the anger went down
as fast as it had arisen.

"Of course you don't mean—But what in the wide world made you think of
such a thing? Polly married! No; nor like to be!"

"I heard that she was engaged."

"To whom?"

"The Admiral's nephew—Peirce."

"Who told you the lie?"

"Then—it was a lie!"

"You might have known it. Who told you?"

"One whom I should have counted trustworthy."

"When did you hear the tale?"

"The year I was in Valenciennes."

Jack recalled Roy's description of Ivor's return from that absence, and
he began to grasp the state of the case.

"When did you hear last from Polly herself?"

"Over two years ago. A letter which had been written before the date
when she was said to have become engaged."

The last remnants of Jack's anger died out. Two years of silence
following upon such a report!

"You have not writ yourself to Polly this great while?"

"How could I—not speaking of this? And—how speak of it, if it were not
true?"

Silence again. Jack observed slowly, as he watched the other's
colourless lips—

"Den, I'm going to be frank. 'Tis no case for half confidences. There
was a time, I'll confess, when I had a doubt in my own mind of Polly's
constancy. She's a pretty creature, and she has had an uncommon lot of
admiration. But I wronged her, for she has been ever faithful to you,
and she has cared for none other. And the night before I started for
Spain she and I talked together, and she spoke out plainly. She said
that if you but asked her to come to Verdun she would come, and gladly.
She wondered, if indeed you cared for her still, that you had not so
done."

A flush came, and Denham's hand was held hard against his forehead.
"Never!" he said in a low voice.

"You would not wish to have her out?" incredulously.

"Never! If Polly were here, I might be taken from her in a week,—sent
to a dungeon, leaving her unprotected."

"I see. Nay, that would not do. Polly and you must wait a while longer.
But you will know now that she is waiting too."

"It might be better for her—not—" Denham broke off.

"Your head is not often like this, I hope?" Jack said, in a concerned
tone.

"Not much respite lately."

"Have you had medical advice? Can nothing be done?"

"One infallible remedy, if it might be had."

"And that is—?"

"Freedom—and Home."

There was a short breath between the words which said much, for Denham
was not given to sighing. Then voices outside told of the return of
Colonel and Mrs. Baron. Denham stood up, murmured a hasty apology, and
left the room.

"Poor fellow!" Jack said aloud.



CHAPTER XLII

LUCILLE'S APPEAL

JACK'S uneasiness grew as days went by. Denham was certainly in a
condition by no means satisfactory. This last heavy blow, the death of
his adored Chief—of the man who had been to him as a guiding star from
boyhood—seemed to have shaken his hold on life, and the old courage and
energy were gone. Though he struggled on, it was in a listless fashion.

Even the assurance as to Polly's constancy could not arouse him. The
lassitude which oppressed him was unconquerable.

"It is so much the worse for her," he said dejectedly to Jack. "If she
could forget me, she at least might be happy. She is wasting the best
years of her life in this miserable waiting. I may be out here another
ten years. I may never go home."

"You don't wish her to forget you, my dear fellow?"

"For her sake I could be glad. Not, of course, for my own."

"Fact is, there's no manner of use in expecting you to take reasonable
views of things, while your head is in this state," declared Jack.

But he became so troubled that he confided his cares to Lucille. He
could not worry the Colonel or Mrs. Baron, who were anxious enough
already.

"I'm not at all happy about him, and that's the solemn truth," Jack
declared confidentially, a fortnight or so after his arrival. "I don't
like the look in his eyes, or here," drawing a finger across his brow.
"And as for strength—just see him this afternoon! He's utterly floored
by that stroll on the ramparts. Why, in old days he'd do his twenty
or thirty miles at a stretch, and get back as fresh as he started. He
didn't know what it was to be done up."

Lucille had not the least idea why, at this point, she should find
herself to be confiding to Jack a secret which she had told to nobody
else. She and he were becoming extremely good friends. Jack had taken
to Lucille on the spot, when they were first introduced, and the
feeling was returned. Still, Lucille had not meant to let anybody know
what she had done. Somehow, it slipped out.

She had long wondered whether it might not be possible to obtain
leave for Denham to return home. Some few among the détenus had been
permitted by the Emperor to do so, under exceptional circumstances. And
Captain Ivor was a soldier. It was well known that, if Napoleon were
chivalrous to anybody, he would be so first to a soldier. He was always
harder upon civilians.

At the Emperor's court an old friend of hers moved—one who had been
formerly a Royalist, and who now for many years had attached himself to
the fortunes of Buonaparte. Lucille had found it hard to pardon this
change of front in her old friend—more strictly her parents' friend—and
intercourse between the two had been almost entirely dropped. Yet
Lucille had heard of him from time to time; and she knew he was not one
to forget the past—the more so in her case, since that past included a
debt of gratitude from him to Lucille's father.

It had one day occurred to her that she might write to this friend,
explaining about Captain Ivor's failing health, and asking him to
intercede with the Emperor for leave for Ivor to go home. Lucille did
not tell Jack how many days she had held out against the notion. Not
for Denham's sake, but for her own. He had been so long the main centre
of thought in her quiet existence, that she could hardly now picture
life at Verdun without him. Not that she was exactly in love with Ivor,
because from the beginning she had known him to belong to Polly; and
though she had been in danger of caring for him a great deal too much,
she had fought against the tendency. But she was very much his friend.

So she hesitated, till one day the selfishness of her own conduct broke
upon her, awakened by some fresh view of his altered looks. Then at
once she acted. She wrote to the friend, putting the matter before him,
frankly stating her own belief that Ivor was in point of fact slowly
dying of captivity, and entreating him, in memory of old days, to
interest himself in the matter, and if possible to get permission for
Ivor's return to England.

The friend—whose name Lucille did not mention to Jack—had answered
her letter. He had written kindly, cordially,—promising to take an
opportunity, sooner or later, to lay the matter before the Emperor. He
might or might not meet with success; but at least Mademoiselle de St.
Roques could depend upon him to do his best for Captain Ivor.

"And you think there is the smallest chance?" Jack said incredulously.

"I cannot tell. There is no certainty, none! But until I hear from
my friend, I will not give up hope. You will not say one word to the
Colonel or to Mrs. Baron—least of all to Captain Ivor?"

"Trust me! Never do to raise his hopes for nothing." Jack himself had
not the least expectation of success.

As a matter of course, Jack had taken up his abode under the same roof
with the Barons. Roy's former room was given to him, and he made a
markedly cheerful addition to the family circle.

Some ten days later they were one evening all together, after dinner.
Jack was dictating a letter to Molly, having pressed Lucille into his
service as amanuensis. The Colonel was reading; his wife was working;
and Denham for an hour past had not stirred or spoken. They all knew
what this meant, and mercifully left him alone. Jack's glance wandered
often towards the motionless figure in the sofa-corner, and in the
midst of his dictation he paused to murmur, "Head as bad as ever?"

"Oui," Lucille said with a sigh. "All day; and now he is quite 'done.'
It is always so. What am I to write next? Ah—I am called. Somebody
wants a word. Will you excuse me?"

Jack amused himself during her absence by scrawling caricatures with
his left hand upon the unfinished sheet. Then Lucille came swiftly in,
running, as if with joy; while her eyes were full of tears. Her face
seemed to shine, and a suppressed sob could be heard in her voice, as
she panted—

"Something for Captain Ivor!"

Denham looked up slowly as she came to his side, and though he received
the packet from her hand, he would have put it aside without attention.

"Ouvrez-le! Ouvrez-le, vîte!" she urged impatiently.

"Who brought it?"

"A gentleman, travelling from Paris. Ouvrez-le!"

Denham roused himself with difficulty to obey. "A passport!" he said,
with listless surprise, and a slight laugh. "Not the passport for Roy,
surely! Rather late in the day."

"But read—read!" implored Lucille, and he made an effort to do so. Then
a rush of colour came, and he looked at Lucille, a strange gleam in his
eyes.

"This—what does it mean?"

"It means that you are free! Free to go home!"

From the others broke a chorus of exclamations.

"'Au nom de Napoléon!' It must be right." Ivor spoke in a bewildered
tone. "But what can have made him choose me?"

"Are you not glad?"

"Glad!" The word was too absurdly inadequate. He walked across to
Colonel Baron.

"Will you look at this, sir? Tell me if I understand it rightly."

Colonel Baron complied, then passed the papers on to his wife and Jack,
while he grasped Ivor's hand.

"I congratulate you with all my heart," he said. "Nothing could have
given me greater delight. For your sake—not for ours."

"But to leave you here still!"

"Don't think of that. Your duty is to go."

"What are the conditions? I can't read to-day."

"Not to bear arms against France for twelve months from the date of
your reaching England, unless an exchange is arranged sooner. It will
not be, of course. There is no exchange for détenus. That means that
for one year you will still be a prisoner on parole, only in England.
It will take you some months to grow strong enough for fighting."

"I am strong already," was the answer, and even in those few minutes
it was remarkable how his face had changed, gaining a healthier tint,
and losing its languor, while the very hollows seemed to be filling
up. "One year from the day I arrive in England! Then I must be off at
once—not lose a day."

"Next week," suggested Jack.

"To-morrow. But what can have induced the Emperor to free me? Why me,
more than any other détenu?"

"Ask Mademoiselle de St. Roques," said Jack, and this brought upon
Lucille a flood of questions. She related simply what she had done;
not specifying, as she had specified to Jack, the precise manner of
description given of Ivor's health.

Denham lifted her hand to his lips. "It is you whom I have to thank,
then," he said, much moved. "But no thanks could repay what you have
done. I can never forget this debt."

One grey shadow lay on Ivor's happiness, of which Jack alone was
allowed a glimpse, when the two were together, late at night. "If it
had but been to serve once more under him!" broke from Denham, in a
tone which Jack too well understood. The sorrow of that loss, to those
who had known John Moore personally, could end only with life itself.



CHAPTER XLIII

THE RELEASE OF ONE

RAPID travelling, ninety years ago, was a comparative term. Ivor
performed the journey as fast as relays of horses could convey a
post-chaise to the coast, and as quickly as contrary winds would allow
him to cross the Channel. Now that he was actually on the road to
Polly, each hour's delay became all but insupportable.

Six long years since he had said good-bye to Polly, for one fortnight!
Would she be altered, as much as he felt that he himself was altered?

It was a cold day, late in spring, when he found himself at the front
door of the Bryces' comfortable mansion. The old butler opened to
Denham, as once before to Roy. This time Drake was not taken in. One
glance, and his face changed.

"Sir!"

"You know me? I hardly thought you would." Ivor grasped kindly the old
retainer's hand. "I am taking you all by surprise."

"It is a surprise, indeed, sir! And I'm heartily glad for to see you
again. Not but what you ain't lookin' as you should, sir, not by no
means. Them furrin' parts haven't suited you, I'm thinkin'."

"Captivity has not suited me. And I have travelled hard and taken
little rest. Who is at home?"

"My mistress, sir, is in the drawing-room; and Miss Keene and Miss
Baron. I was about to take lights."

"Wait till I have gone in. And, Drake, you can announce me, but don't
say my name so that it can be heard."

Drake obeyed to the letter. He threw open the drawing-room door, and
mumbled something inaudible. Denham entered, bowing ceremoniously.

"You can bring lights, Drake," said Mrs. Bryce. The room was dark, and
the fire had fallen low.

"Yes, ma'am."

"I'm excessive glad to see you, sir," Mrs. Bryce declared cordially,
after a hurried whisper to Polly, "Who did he say, my dear?" Then she
turned to Ivor with her welcome. "Mr. Bryce is away, I'm sorry to say,
but doubtless you can await his return, and Mr. Baron will be in this
minute."

Polly was casting shy glances at him. Something in the outline of his
figure, dim though the light was, brought Denham to her mind; but it
was not until he spoke that her colour changed fast from pink to white
and from white to pink.

"I shouldn't be surprised to be informed, sir, that you are but just
home from the war?" said Mrs. Bryce.

"I have not been fighting, I regret to say. My turn for that will no
doubt come. I have been long a prisoner."

"And you have obtained your release?"

"The Emperor has consented to my return home."

Mrs. Bryce held up both hands.

"That is excessive gracious of him, truly. You are more fortunate than
many. Roy Baron was not so well off, and he had to make his escape.
But he has been since in the campaign in Portugal and Spain, under our
great Commander, Sir John Moore. A truly melancholy story that, sir;
yet he died as a soldier would choose to die, covered with glory. And
Roy—Mr. Baron, I should say—is now back with us for a little space; and
we, his friends, fondly think he has done well. But will you allow me
to offer you cake and wine? You have a very weary look." She peered at
him, from near at hand. "What can Drake be about not to bring in the
lights?" Her hand was on the bell.

Denham was gazing earnestly towards Polly, so earnestly that she could
not but return the gaze. A thrill ran through her, for there was no
mistaking that voice. Molly took upon herself to put a pointed question.

"Have you come from Verdun, sir, if I might ask?"

"Pray take a seat, sir," Mrs. Bryce was entreating. She might as well
have spoken to stone walls.

"I am straight from Verdun," Ivor replied.

"Then, sir, doubtless you will bring messages for us all from the
unfortunate prisoners there detained," said Mrs. Bryce, not grasping
his identity with one of those prisoners.

Drake at this moment carried in the lights; and Roy, entering too,
cried out in astonishment—

"Den! Why, 'tis Den himself! Den, dear fellow!—" nearly wringing Ivor's
hands off with the energy of his welcome.

Preoccupied though Ivor could not help being with Polly, his gaze
rested with satisfaction upon "his friend Roy." The boy who had left
Verdun for the dungeons of Bitche was a man now: broad-shouldered,
well-built, soldier-like, frank as ever in manner, yet with something
in the young face which told not only of endurance past, but of the
sharp touch of sorrow.

"I am glad—more glad than words can say! Little I dreamt who I should
find here. And you are free! But how is it? You don't say old Boney
has let you off? Of his own free will? How did it happen? Lucille! No!
Bravo, Lucille!"

Nobody else had a chance of being heard. Mrs. Bryce exclaimed and
talked in vain. Polly and Molly waited, not sorry to see Roy like
himself again, which he had scarcely been hitherto since his return.
Roy's eager questions had to be answered first.

Then came a change of manner, and a lowered voice. "I shall have no end
of things to tell you, Den—yes, I know—" at a slight gesture—"another
time." Roy did his best to resume a bright manner. "You've seen
accounts, of course. That charge of the Reserve through the valley
wasn't bad—yes, when I got my wound. It's pretty nearly right now. The
column tried to turn our flank, you know, and we did just knock 'em
into a cocked hat, and no mistake. The column simply ceased to exist."

So much Roy poured out impulsively. Then he stopped. A consciousness
had broken upon him of something unsatisfactory. Denham's face was to
him as an open book, and he saw written there several things. One thing
that he saw made him turn sharply to Polly, as she stood a little way
off, prettily composed. Was this the meeting of the two, after six
years of enforced separation?

Roy recalled his talk with Polly on his return from Bitche, and in a
flash he read the true state of affairs. He looked hard at each in turn.

"Polly, didn't I tell you? He has come back!"

It was necessary for Polly to answer. "Captain Ivor is indeed most
fortunate to have obtained his release," she said, adjusting her scarf.

"Fortunate to have obtained his release!" repeated Roy, with slow
emphasis.

Then he showed a decision and promptitude worthy of his profession. A
gesture ordered Molly to make herself scarce. Seizing Mrs. Bryce by
the arm, he dragged away that astonished lady, reserving explanations
till they were out of the room. After which he poured forth profuse
apologies, but would allow no re-entrance.

And Denham found himself alone with Polly. He stood looking down upon
her, with a grave tenderness and questioning. Polly began to tremble.

"We had no expectation of seeing you," she remarked, in a tone of great
decorum.

She cast one little glance up.

"Have you travelled hard? You are much fatigued."

"Polly, is all between us as it once was?"

Polly dropped her eyes.

"It is long since we parted," she said; "and very long since any letter
has reached me, sir. I cannot tell—how matters may be now. But six
years work changes. And I—"

"There are a few matters to be explained," Denham remarked quietly.
"But first, may I beg you to read this note from Jack? He exacted
from me a promise that I would not fail to give it to you within one
half-hour of my arrival. Jack is at Verdun, with Colonel and Mrs.
Baron, as you may have heard."

"I did not know that. We heard only that Jack was prisoner. It has been
a sad grief to me."

"Will you have his letter now?" asked Denham, in his most courteous
tones.

"If you choose, sir."

She moved two or three paces nearer to a candle, to read it. Jack's
left-handed hieroglyphics were not to be deciphered quickly. This was
what she made out—

"DEAR POLLY,—Denham is going home to you; and he has heard a false
tale of your having forgot him. That is why he has not writ to you for
so long a time. But I have assured him of your Unchanged Affection,
and now I assure you of the same in him. Roy was in the right of the
matter. Den has not altered, nor will he alter. But he has gone through
much, and has been long ill, and the Death of Our Hero has gone near to
break his heart. So do not put on pretty airs, dear Poll, but comfort
him, as you know how, for he needs your comfort; and the sooner you and
he get married, the better pleased shall I be, for he is in want of
you. Be good to him, my dear Polly, and believe me,—Your affectionate
brother, JACK KEENE."

Polly came across to where Denham stood.

"Jack tells me of the mistake," she whispered. "And now I understand.
He tells me, too, that I am to comfort you."

She held out her hands, and he took them into his strong grasp.

"Sweet Polly," he said, in a voice which shook a little, despite his
best efforts—"you wrote to me once a letter, which was signed, 'Yours
faithfully—and till death.' That letter I have never parted with since
the day it reached me. Not even when I feared that I had indeed cause
for doubt. Can you say those words to me once again?"

Polly lifted her head, and looked straight into his eyes. "I am yours,
Denham,—always and ever—as long as life shall last," she uttered, very
clearly.

      *     *     *     *     *     *     *

Twelve months later, Denham stood in the passage of the little London
house, which for more than eleven months had been his home and Polly's.
He had wasted no time in making her his wife. He had but a year, he
urged, and surely the waiting had lasted long enough.

So Mrs. Bryce was obliged to forgo her hopes of a grand and fashionable
wedding, to which all the Quality should be invited, for the display
of resplendent costumes. Denham was neither in health nor in spirits
for such a function; and Polly's one wish was to do what would give him
pleasure.

They had been married quietly, less than three weeks after his return;
and Polly had done her best to comfort him and to win him back once
more to strength.

All that year he had not left her. But now he was free, and duty
called him to the Peninsula, where the long struggle was being carried
on between Wellesley and the army of Napoleon. The Spaniards with
Wellesley, as with Moore, did little at any time, beyond throwing
hindrances in the way of the British. Roy and Bob had gone out many
months before.

It was hard work for Denham to say good-bye—not only to Polly, with her
sweet brave face, but to the tiny boy, with Polly's own eyes of brown
velvet, who had come but a very little while before to gladden their
home. Denham bent to kiss the tiny sleeper, then turned again to Polly.

"It will not be for long," she whispered. "I may think that, may I not?
Peace must surely come some day."

"Not yet, dear heart," he answered; and she knew well that, acutely
though he felt leaving her, he yet longed to share the fight with those
who strove for England and for freedom, that fight from which he had
been so many years debarred.

"Molly will be always here. And she and I will think and talk of you
and Roy, every day and every hour. And oh, Denham, if women's prayers
may bring victory to men's arms, victory will surely be yours!"

"We shall conquer in the end, please God; and in that way you may truly
help us, sweet one," he replied.

Then he took her in his arms and held her very closely. And in another
minute he too was gone to the wars, as so many thousands had to go in
those stirring days.

It was well that neither he nor she could guess how long a separation
might again lie before them. For this was only 1810; and the day which
should see Wellington, at the head of his victorious Army, entering
France, lay four years ahead.

Four years also had Colonel and Mrs. Baron to possess themselves in
patience, before they could again set eyes on their boy—before they
might once more clasp in their arms the little Molly whom, in 1803,
they had quitted for one fortnight's absence.

Jack remained still at Verdun, and before him too stretched four years
of unbroken captivity. But Jack, though often disposed to chafe, yet
found something wherewith to pass his time. This became gradually clear
to Polly and Molly, through letters received at long intervals. At
length came one, in which Jack gave particulars as to Colonel and Mrs.
Baron, and as to the greatly improved condition of prisoners at Verdun
under the new French Commandant. After which he said—

"If ever this gets to England, it is to inform you that I am proposing
shortly to become a married man. Lucille has promised to be my wife."

Molly sat smiling over the notion for a long while. "Jack was sure to
marry," she remarked in a philosophic tone. "He is of the sort not to
be content without. And you and Denham are exceeding happy, married,
dear Polly. But as for me, I have no desire that way. Never shall I
care for any man in the whole world as I care for Roy." Then, in words
once spoken before, and perhaps often repeated in her own mind since,
she added—"And so that matter is for ever settled."

No doubt at the moment Molly honestly meant, or thought she meant, what
she said. But the declaration had no sooner passed her lips than she
hesitated, and a slight colour rose in her cheeks.

It was merely that she happened just then to think of Bob Monke!



Printed by T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to Her Majesty
at the Edinburgh University Press