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THE MYSTERY OF CHOICE


BY ROBERT W. CHAMBERS

AUTHOR OF THE KING IN YELLOW, THE RED REPUBLIC, A KING AND A FEW DUKES,
THE MAKER OF MOONS, ETC.


NEW YORK D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 1897




COPYRIGHT, 1897,
BY ROBERT W. CHAMBERS.




_DEDICATION._


 _There is a maid, demure as she is wise,
  With all of April in her winsome eyes,
  And to my tales she listens pensively,
  With slender fingers clasped about her knee,
  Watching the sparrows on the balcony._

   _Shy eyes that, lifted up to me,
    Free all my heart of vanity;
    Clear eyes, that speak all silently,
    Sweet as the silence of a nunnery--
    Read, for I write my rede for you alone,
    Here where the city's mighty monotone
    Deepens the silence to a symphony--
    Silence of Saints, and Seers, and Sorcery._

 _Arms and the Man! A noble theme, I ween!
  Alas! I can not sing of these, Eileen--
  Only of maids and men and meadow-grass,
  Of sea and fields and woodlands, where I pass;
  Nothing but these I know, Eileen, alas!_

   _Clear eyes that, lifted up to me,
    Free all my soul from vanity;
    Gray eyes, that speak all wistfully--
    Nothing but these I know, alas!_

                                       _R. W. C._

 _April, 1896._




INTRODUCTION.


 _I._

 _Where two fair paths, deep flowered
                        And leaf-embowered,
  Creep East and West across a World concealed,
  Which shall he take who journeys far afield?_

 _II._

 _Canst thou then say, "I go,"
                        Or "I forego"?
  What turns thee East or West, as thistles blow?
  Is fair more fair than fair--and dost thou know?_

 _III._

 _Turn to the West, unblessed
                        And uncaressed;
  Turn to the East, and, seated at the Feast
  Thou shalt find Life, or Death from Life released._

 _IV._

 _And thou who lovest best
                        A maid dark-tressed,
  And passest others by with careless eye,
  Canst thou tell why thou choosest? Tell, then; why?_

  _V._

 _So when thy kiss is given
                        Or half-forgiven,
  Why should she tremble, with her face flame-hot,
  Or laugh and whisper, "Love, I tremble not"?_

 _VI._

 _Or when thy hand may catch
                        A half-drawn latch,
  What draws thee from the door, to turn and pass
  Through streets unknown, dim, still, and choked with grass?_

 _VII._

 _What! Canst thou not foresee
                        The Mystery?
  Heed! For a Voice commands thy every deed!
  And it hath sounded. And thou needs must heed!_

                                       _R. W. C._

 _1896._




CONTENTS.


                               PAGE

  THE PURPLE EMPEROR              1

  POMPE FUNÈBRE                  39

  THE MESSENGER                  47

  THE WHITE SHADOW              109

  PASSEUR                       175

  THE KEY TO GRIEF              185

  A MATTER OF INTEREST          213

  ENVOI                         283




THE PURPLE EMPEROR.




THE PURPLE EMPEROR.

  Un souvenir heureux est peut-être, sur terre,
    Plus vrai que le bonheur.

                                        A. DE MUSSET.


I.

The Purple Emperor watched me in silence. I cast again, spinning out
six feet more of waterproof silk, and, as the line hissed through the
air far across the pool, I saw my three flies fall on the water like
drifting thistledown. The Purple Emperor sneered.

"You see," he said, "I am right. There is not a trout in Brittany that
will rise to a tailed fly."

"They do in America," I replied.

"Zut! for America!" observed the Purple Emperor.

"And trout take a tailed fly in England," I insisted sharply.

"Now do I care what things or people do in England?" demanded the
Purple Emperor.

"You don't care for anything except yourself and your wriggling
caterpillars," I said, more annoyed than I had yet been.

The Purple Emperor sniffed. His broad, hairless, sunburnt features bore
that obstinate expression which always irritated me. Perhaps the manner
in which he wore his hat intensified the irritation, for the flapping
brim rested on both ears, and the two little velvet ribbons which
hung from the silver buckle in front wiggled and fluttered with every
trivial breeze. His cunning eyes and sharp-pointed nose were out of all
keeping with his fat red face. When he met my eye, he chuckled.

"I know more about insects than any man in Morbihan--or Finistère
either, for that matter," he said.

"The Red Admiral knows as much as you do," I retorted.

"He doesn't," replied the Purple Emperor angrily.

"And his collection of butterflies is twice as large as yours," I
added, moving down the stream to a spot directly opposite him.

"It is, is it?" sneered the Purple Emperor. "Well, let me tell you,
Monsieur Darrel, in all his collection he hasn't a specimen, a single
specimen, of that magnificent butterfly, Apatura Iris, commonly known
as the 'Purple Emperor.'"

"Everybody in Brittany knows that," I said, casting across the
sparkling water; "but just because you happen to be the only man who
ever captured a 'Purple Emperor' in Morbihan, it doesn't follow that
you are an authority on sea-trout flies. Why do you say that a Breton
sea-trout won't touch a tailed fly?"

"It's so," he replied.

"Why? There are plenty of May-flies about the stream."

"Let 'em fly!" snarled the Purple Emperor, "you won't see a trout touch
'em."

My arm was aching, but I grasped my split bamboo more firmly, and,
half turning, waded out into the stream and began to whip the ripples
at the head of the pool. A great green dragon-fly came drifting by on
the summer breeze and hung a moment above the pool, glittering like an
emerald.

"There's a chance! Where is your butterfly net?" I called across the
stream.

"What for? That dragon-fly? I've got dozens--Anax Junius, Drury,
characteristic, anal angle of posterior wings, in male, round; thorax
marked with----"

"That will do," I said fiercely. "Can't I point out an insect in
the air without this burst of erudition? Can you tell me, in simple
everyday French, what this little fly is--this one, flitting over the
eel grass here beside me? See, it has fallen on the water."

"Huh!" sneered the Purple Emperor, "that's a Linnobia annulus."

"What's that?" I demanded.

Before he could answer there came a heavy splash in the pool, and the
fly disappeared.

"He! he! he!" tittered the Purple Emperor. "Didn't I tell you the fish
knew their business? That was a sea-trout. I hope you don't get him."

He gathered up his butterfly net, collecting box, chloroform bottle,
and cyanide jar. Then he rose, swung the box over his shoulder, stuffed
the poison bottles into the pockets of his silver-buttoned velvet
coat, and lighted his pipe. This latter operation was a demoralizing
spectacle, for the Purple Emperor, like all Breton peasants, smoked one
of those microscopical Breton pipes which requires ten minutes to find,
ten minutes to fill, ten minutes to light, and ten seconds to finish.
With true Breton stolidity he went through this solemn rite, blew three
puffs of smoke into the air, scratched his pointed nose reflectively,
and waddled away, calling back an ironical "Au revoir, and bad luck to
all Yankees!"

I watched him out of sight, thinking sadly of the young girl whose life
he made a hell upon earth--Lys Trevec, his niece. She never admitted
it, but we all knew what the black-and-blue marks meant on her soft,
round arm, and it made me sick to see the look of fear come into her
eyes when the Purple Emperor waddled into the café of the Groix Inn.

It was commonly said that he half-starved her. This she denied. Marie
Joseph and 'Fine Lelocard had seen him strike her the day after the
Pardon of the Birds because she had liberated three bullfinches which
he had limed the day before. I asked Lys if this were true, and she
refused to speak to me for the rest of the week. There was nothing to
do about it. If the Purple Emperor had not been avaricious, I should
never have seen Lys at all, but he could not resist the thirty francs
a week which I offered him; and Lys posed for me all day long, happy
as a linnet in a pink thorn hedge. Nevertheless, the Purple Emperor
hated me, and constantly threatened to send Lys back to her dreary
flax-spinning. He was suspicious, too, and when he had gulped down
the single glass of cider which proves fatal to the sobriety of most
Bretons, he would pound the long, discoloured oaken table and roar
curses on me, on Yves Terrec, and on the Red Admiral. We were the
three objects in the world which he most hated: me, because I was a
foreigner, and didn't care a rap for him and his butterflies; and the
Red Admiral, because he was a rival entomologist.

He had other reasons for hating Terrec.

The Red Admiral, a little wizened wretch, with a badly adjusted
glass eye and a passion for brandy, took his name from a butterfly
which predominated in his collection. This butterfly, commonly known
to amateurs as the "Red Admiral," and to entomologists as Vanessa
Atalanta, had been the occasion of scandal among the entomologists of
France and Brittany. For the Red Admiral had taken one of these common
insects, dyed it a brilliant yellow by the aid of chemicals, and palmed
it off on a credulous collector as a South African species, absolutely
unique. The fifty francs which he gained by this rascality were,
however, absorbed in a suit for damages brought by the outraged amateur
a month later; and when he had sat in the Quimperlé jail for a month,
he reappeared in the little village of St. Gildas soured, thirsty, and
burning for revenge. Of course we named him the Red Admiral, and he
accepted the name with suppressed fury.

The Purple Emperor, on the other hand, had gained his imperial title
legitimately, for it was an undisputed fact that the only specimen of
that beautiful butterfly, Apatura Iris, or the Purple Emperor, as it
is called by amateurs--the only specimen that had ever been taken in
Finistère or in Morbihan--was captured and brought home alive by Joseph
Marie Gloanec, ever afterward to be known as the Purple Emperor.

When the capture of this rare butterfly became known the Red Admiral
nearly went crazy. Every day for a week he trotted over to the Groix
Inn, where the Purple Emperor lived with his niece, and brought his
microscope to bear on the rare newly captured butterfly, in hopes of
detecting a fraud. But this specimen was genuine, and he leered through
his microscope in vain.

"No chemicals there, Admiral," grinned the Purple Emperor; and the Red
Admiral chattered with rage.

To the scientific world of Brittany and France the capture of an
Apatura Iris in Morbihan was of great importance. The Museum of Quimper
offered to purchase the butterfly, but the Purple Emperor, though a
hoarder of gold, was a monomaniac on butterflies, and he jeered at the
Curator of the Museum. From all parts of Brittany and France letters
of inquiry and congratulation poured in upon him. The French Academy
of Sciences awarded him a prize, and the Paris Entomological Society
made him an honorary member. Being a Breton peasant, and a more than
commonly pig-headed one at that, these honours did not disturb his
equanimity; but when the little hamlet of St. Gildas elected him mayor,
and, as is the custom in Brittany under such circumstances, he left his
thatched house to take up an official life in the little Groix Inn, his
head became completely turned. To be mayor in a village of nearly one
hundred and fifty people! It was an empire! So he became unbearable,
drinking himself viciously drunk every night of his life, maltreating
his niece, Lys Trevec, like the barbarous old wretch that he was, and
driving the Red Admiral nearly frantic with his eternal harping on the
capture of Apatura Iris. Of course he refused to tell where he had
caught the butterfly. The Red Admiral stalked his footsteps, but in vain.

"He! he! he!" nagged the Purple Emperor, cuddling his chin over a glass
of cider; "I saw you sneaking about the St. Gildas spinny yesterday
morning. So you think you can find another Apatura Iris by running
after me? It won't do, Admiral, it won't do, d'ye see?"

The Red Admiral turned yellow with mortification and envy, but the next
day he actually took to his bed, for the Purple Emperor had brought
home not a butterfly but a live chrysalis, which, if successfully
hatched, would become a perfect specimen of the invaluable Apatura
Iris. This was the last straw. The Red Admiral shut himself up in
his little stone cottage, and for weeks now he had been invisible to
everybody except 'Fine Lelocard who carried him a loaf of bread and a
mullet or langouste every morning.

The withdrawal of the Red Admiral from the society of St. Gildas
excited first the derision and finally the suspicion of the Purple
Emperor. What deviltry could he be hatching? Was he experimenting with
chemicals again, or was he engaged in some deeper plot, the object
of which was to discredit the Purple Emperor? Roux, the postman,
who carried the mail on foot once a day from Bannalec, a distance of
fifteen miles each way, had brought several suspicious letters, bearing
English stamps, to the Red Admiral, and the next day the Admiral had
been observed at his window grinning up into the sky and rubbing his
hands together. A night or two after this apparition the postman left
two packages at the Groix Inn for a moment while he ran across the way
to drink a glass of cider with me. The Purple Emperor, who was roaming
about the café, snooping into everything that did not concern him, came
upon the packages and examined the postmarks and addresses. One of the
packages was square and heavy, and felt like a book. The other was also
square, but very light, and felt like a pasteboard box. They were both
addressed to the Red Admiral, and they bore English stamps.

When Roux, the postman, came back, the Purple Emperor tried to pump
him, but the poor little postman knew nothing about the contents of the
packages, and after he had taken them around the corner to the cottage
of the Red Admiral the Purple Emperor ordered a glass of cider, and
deliberately fuddled himself until Lys came in and tearfully supported
him to his room. Here he became so abusive and brutal that Lys called
to me, and I went and settled the trouble without wasting any words.
This also the Purple Emperor remembered, and waited his chance to get
even with me.

That had happened a week ago, and until to-day he had not deigned to
speak to me.

Lys had posed for me all the week, and to-day being Saturday, and I
lazy, we had decided to take a little relaxation, she to visit and
gossip with her little black-eyed friend Yvette in the neighbouring
hamlet of St. Julien, and I to try the appetites of the Breton trout
with the contents of my American fly book.

I had thrashed the stream very conscientiously for three hours, but not
a trout had risen to my cast, and I was piqued. I had begun to believe
that there were no trout in the St. Gildas stream, and would probably
have given up had I not seen the sea trout snap the little fly which
the Purple Emperor had named so scientifically. That set me thinking.
Probably the Purple Emperor was right, for he certainly was an expert
in everything that crawled and wriggled in Brittany. So I matched,
from my American fly book, the fly that the sea trout had snapped up,
and withdrawing the cast of three, knotted a new leader to the silk
and slipped a fly on the loop. It was a queer fly. It was one of those
unnameable experiments which fascinate anglers in sporting stores and
which generally prove utterly useless. Moreover, it was a tailed fly,
but of course I easily remedied that with a stroke of my penknife.
Then I was all ready, and I stepped out into the hurrying rapids and
cast straight as an arrow to the spot where the sea trout had risen.
Lightly as a plume the fly settled on the bosom of the pool; then came
a startling splash, a gleam of silver, and the line tightened from the
vibrating rod-tip to the shrieking reel. Almost instantly I checked the
fish, and as he floundered for a moment, making the water boil along
his glittering sides, I sprang to the bank again, for I saw that the
fish was a heavy one and I should probably be in for a long run down
the stream. The five-ounce rod swept in a splendid circle, quivering
under the strain. "Oh, for a gaff-hook!" I cried aloud, for I was now
firmly convinced that I had a salmon to deal with, and no sea trout at
all.

Then as I stood, bringing every ounce to bear on the sulking fish, a
lithe, slender girl came hurriedly along the opposite bank calling out
to me by name.

"Why, Lys!" I said, glancing up for a second, "I thought you were at
St. Julien with Yvette."

"Yvette has gone to Bannalec. I went home and found an awful fight
going on at the Groix Inn, and I was so frightened that I came to tell
you."

The fish dashed off at that moment, carrying all the line my reel held,
and I was compelled to follow him at a jump. Lys, active and graceful
as a young deer, in spite of her Pont-Aven sabots, followed along the
opposite bank until the fish settled in a deep pool, shook the line
savagely once or twice, and then relapsed into the sulks.

"Fight at the Groix Inn?" I called across the water. "What fight?"

"Not exactly fight," quavered Lys, "but the Red Admiral has come out
of his house at last, and he and my uncle are drinking together and
disputing about butterflies. I never saw my uncle so angry, and the Red
Admiral is sneering and grinning. Oh, it is almost wicked to see such
a face!"

"But Lys," I said, scarcely able to repress a smile, "your uncle and
the Red Admiral are always quarrelling and drinking."

"I know--oh, dear me!--but this is different, Monsieur Darrel. The Red
Admiral has grown old and fierce since he shut himself up three weeks
ago, and--oh, dear! I never saw such a look in my uncle's eyes before.
He seemed insane with fury. His eyes--I can't speak of it--and then
Terrec came in."

"Oh," I said more gravely, "that was unfortunate. What did the Red
Admiral say to his son?"

Lys sat down on a rock among the ferns, and gave me a mutinous glance
from her blue eyes.

Yves Terrec, loafer, poacher, and son of Louis Jean Terrec, otherwise
the Red Admiral, had been kicked out by his father, and had also been
forbidden the village by the Purple Emperor, in his majestic capacity
of mayor. Twice the young ruffian had returned: once to rifle the
bedroom of the Purple Emperor--an unsuccessful enterprise--and another
time to rob his own father. He succeeded in the latter attempt, but was
never caught, although he was frequently seen roving about the forests
and moors with his gun. He openly menaced the Purple Emperor; vowed
that he would marry Lys in spite of all the gendarmes in Quimperlé;
and these same gendarmes he led many a long chase through brier-filled
swamps and over miles of yellow gorse.

What he did to the Purple Emperor--what he intended to do--disquieted
me but little; but I worried over his threat concerning Lys. During
the last three months this had bothered me a great deal; for when Lys
came to St. Gildas from the convent the first thing she captured was my
heart. For a long time I had refused to believe that any tie of blood
linked this dainty blue-eyed creature with the Purple Emperor. Although
she dressed in the velvet-laced bodice and blue petticoat of Finistère,
and wore the bewitching white coiffe of St. Gildas, it seemed like a
pretty masquerade. To me she was as sweet and as gently bred as many a
maiden of the noble Faubourg who danced with her cousins at a Louis XV
fête champêtre. So when Lys said that Yves Terrec had returned openly
to St. Gildas, I felt that I had better be there also.

"What did Terrec say, Lys?" I asked, watching the line vibrating above
the placid pool.

The wild rose colour crept into her cheeks. "Oh," she answered, with a
little toss of her chin, "you know what he always says."

"That he will carry you away?"

"Yes."

"In spite of the Purple Emperor, the Red Admiral, and the gendarmes?"

"Yes."

"And what do you say, Lys?"

"I? Oh, nothing."

"Then let me say it for you."

Lys looked at her delicate pointed sabots, the sabots from Pont-Aven,
made to order. They fitted her little foot. They were her only luxury.

"Will you let me answer for you, Lys?" I asked.

"You, Monsieur Darrel?"

"Yes. Will you let me give him his answer?"

"Mon Dieu, why should you concern yourself, Monsieur Darrel?"

The fish lay very quiet, but the rod in my hand trembled.

"Because I love you, Lys."

The wild rose colour in her cheeks deepened; she gave a gentle gasp,
then hid her curly head in her hands.

"I love you, Lys."

"Do you know what you say?" she stammered.

"Yes, I love you."

She raised her sweet face and looked at me across the pool.

"I love you," she said, while the tears stood like stars in her eyes.
"Shall I come over the brook to you?"


II.

That night Yves Terrec left the village of St. Gildas vowing vengeance
against his father, who refused him shelter.

I can see him now, standing in the road, his bare legs rising like
pillars of bronze from his straw-stuffed sabots, his short velvet
jacket torn and soiled by exposure and dissipation, and his eyes,
fierce, roving, bloodshot--while the Red Admiral squeaked curses on
him, and hobbled away into his little stone cottage.

"I will not forget you!" cried Yves Terrec, and stretched out his hand
toward his father with a terrible gesture. Then he whipped his gun to
his cheek and took a short step forward, but I caught him by the throat
before he could fire, and a second later we were rolling in the dust
of the Bannalec road. I had to hit him a heavy blow behind the ear
before he would let go, and then, rising and shaking myself, I dashed
his muzzle-loading fowling piece to bits against a wall, and threw his
knife into the river. The Purple Emperor was looking on with a queer
light in his eyes. It was plain that he was sorry Terrec had not choked
me to death.

"He would have killed his father," I said, as I passed him, going
toward the Groix Inn.

"That's his business," snarled the Purple Emperor. There was a deadly
light in his eyes. For a moment I thought he was going to attack me;
but he was merely viciously drunk, so I shoved him out of my way and
went to bed, tired and disgusted.

The worst of it was I couldn't sleep, for I feared that the Purple
Emperor might begin to abuse Lys. I lay restlessly tossing among the
sheets until I could stay there no longer. I did not dress entirely;
I merely slipped on a pair of chaussons and sabots, a pair of
knickerbockers, a jersey, and a cap. Then, loosely tying a handkerchief
about my throat, I went down the worm-eaten stairs and out into the
moonlit road. There was a candle flaring in the Purple Emperor's
window, but I could not see him.

"He's probably dead drunk," I thought, and looked up at the window
where, three years before, I had first seen Lys.

"Asleep, thank Heaven!" I muttered, and wandered out along the road.
Passing the small cottage of the Red Admiral, I saw that it was dark,
but the door was open. I stepped inside the hedge to shut it, thinking,
in case Yves Terrec should be roving about, his father would lose
whatever he had left.

Then, after fastening the door with a stone, I wandered on through the
dazzling Breton moonlight. A nightingale was singing in a willow swamp
below, and from the edge of the mere, among the tall swamp grasses,
myriads of frogs chanted a bass chorus.

When I returned, the eastern sky was beginning to lighten, and across
the meadows on the cliffs, outlined against the paling horizon, I saw
a seaweed gatherer going to his work among the curling breakers on the
coast. His long rake was balanced on his shoulder, and the sea wind
carried his song across the meadows to me:

    St. Gildas!
    St. Gildas!
    Pray for us,
    Shelter us,
  Us who toil in the sea.

Passing the shrine at the entrance of the village, I took off my cap
and knelt in prayer to Our Lady of Faöuet; and if I neglected myself
in that prayer, surely I believed Our Lady of Faöuet would be kinder to
Lys. It is said that the shrine casts white shadows. I looked, but saw
only the moonlight. Then very peacefully I went to bed again, and was
only awakened by the clank of sabres and the trample of horses in the
road below my window.

"Good gracious!" I thought, "it must be eleven o'clock, for there are
the gendarmes from Quimperlé."

I looked at my watch; it was only half-past eight, and as the gendarmes
made their rounds every Thursday at eleven, I wondered what had brought
them out so early to St. Gildas.

"Of course," I grumbled, rubbing my eyes, "they are after Terrec," and
I jumped into my limited bath.

Before I was completely dressed I heard a timid knock, and opening my
door, razor in hand, stood astonished and silent. Lys, her blue eyes
wide with terror, leaned on the threshold.

"My darling!" I cried, "what on earth is the matter?" But she
only clung to me, panting like a wounded sea gull. At last, when I
drew her into the room and raised her face to mine, she spoke in a
heart-breaking voice:

"Oh, Dick! they are going to arrest you, but I will die before I
believe one word of what they say. No, don't ask me," and she began to
sob desperately.

When I found that something really serious was the matter, I flung
on my coat and cap, and, slipping one arm about her waist, went down
the stairs and out into the road. Four gendarmes sat on their horses
in front of the café door; beyond them, the entire population of St.
Gildas gaped, ten deep.

"Hello, Durand!" I said to the brigadier, "what the devil is this I
hear about arresting me?"

"It's true, mon ami," replied Durand with sepulchral sympathy. I looked
him over from the tip of his spurred boots to his sulphur-yellow sabre
belt, then upward, button by button, to his disconcerted face.

"What for?" I said scornfully. "Don't try any cheap sleuth work on me!
Speak up, man, what's the trouble?"

The Purple Emperor, who sat in the doorway staring at me, started to
speak, but thought better of it and got up and went into the house. The
gendarmes rolled their eyes mysteriously and looked wise.

"Come, Durand," I said impatiently, "what's the charge?"

"Murder," he said in a faint voice.

"What!" I cried incredulously. "Nonsense! Do I look like a murderer?
Get off your horse, you stupid, and tell me who's murdered."

Durand got down, looking very silly, and came up to me, offering his
hand with a propitiatory grin.

"It was the Purple Emperor who denounced you! See, they found your
handkerchief at his door----"

"Whose door, for Heaven's sake?" I cried.

"Why, the Red Admiral's!"

"The Red Admiral's? What has he done?"

"Nothing--he's only been murdered."

I could scarcely believe my senses, although they took me over to the
little stone cottage and pointed out the blood-spattered room. But
the horror of the thing was that the corpse of the murdered man had
disappeared, and there only remained a nauseating lake of blood on
the stone floor, in the centre of which lay a human hand. There was
no doubt as to whom the hand belonged, for everybody who had ever seen
the Red Admiral knew that the shrivelled bit of flesh which lay in the
thickening blood was the hand of the Red Admiral. To me it looked like
the severed claw of some gigantic bird.

"Well," I said, "there's been murder committed. Why don't you do
something?"

"What?" asked Durand.

"I don't know. Send for the Commissaire."

"He's at Quimperlé. I telegraphed."

"Then send for a doctor, and find out how long this blood has been
coagulating."

"The chemist from Quimperlé is here; he's a doctor."

"What does he say?"

"He says that he doesn't know."

"And who are you going to arrest?" I inquired, turning away from the
spectacle on the floor.

"I don't know," said the brigadier solemnly; "you are denounced by the
Purple Emperor, because he found your handkerchief at the door when he
went out this morning."

"Just like a pig-headed Breton!" I exclaimed, thoroughly angry. "Did he
not mention Yves Terrec?"

"No."

"Of course not," I said. "He overlooked the fact that Terrec tried to
shoot his father last night, and that I took away his gun. All that
counts for nothing when he finds my handkerchief at the murdered man's
door."

"Come into the café," said Durand, much disturbed, "we can talk it
over, there. Of course, Monsieur Darrel, I have never had the faintest
idea that you were the murderer!"

The four gendarmes and I walked across the road to the Groix Inn and
entered the café. It was crowded with Bretons, smoking, drinking,
and jabbering in half a dozen dialects, all equally unsatisfactory to
a civilized ear; and I pushed through the crowd to where little Max
Fortin, the chemist of Quimperlé, stood smoking a vile cigar.

"This is a bad business," he said, shaking hands and offering me the
mate to his cigar, which I politely declined.

"Now, Monsieur Fortin," I said, "it appears that the Purple Emperor
found my handkerchief near the murdered man's door this morning, and
so he concludes"--here I glared at the Purple Emperor--"that I am the
assassin. I will now ask him a question," and turning on him suddenly,
I shouted, "What were you doing at the Red Admiral's door?"

The Purple Emperor started and turned pale, and I pointed at him
triumphantly.

"See what a sudden question will do. Look how embarrassed he is,
and yet I do not charge him with murder; and I tell you, gentlemen,
that man there knows as well as I do who was the murderer of the Red
Admiral!"

"I don't!" bawled the Purple Emperor.

"You do," I said. "It was Yves Terrec."

"I don't believe it," he said obstinately, dropping his voice.

"Of course not, being pig-headed."

"I am not pig-headed," he roared again, "but I am mayor of St. Gildas,
and I do not believe that Yves Terrec killed his father."

"You saw him try to kill him last night?"

The mayor grunted.

"And you saw what I did."

He grunted again.

"And," I went on, "you heard Yves Terrec threaten to kill his father.
You heard him curse the Red Admiral and swear to kill him. Now the
father is murdered and his body is gone."

"And your handkerchief?" sneered the Purple Emperor.

"I dropped it, of course."

"And the seaweed gatherer who saw you last night lurking about the Red
Admiral's cottage," grinned the Purple Emperor.

I was startled at the man's malice.

"That will do," I said. "It is perfectly true that I was walking on the
Bannalec road last night, and that I stopped to close the Red Admiral's
door, which was ajar, although his light was not burning. After that
I went up the road to the Dinez Woods, and then walked over by St.
Julien, whence I saw the seaweed gatherer on the cliffs. He was near
enough for me to hear what he sang. What of that?"

"What did you do then?"

"Then I stopped at the shrine and said a prayer, and then I went to
bed and slept until Brigadier Durand's gendarmes awoke me with their
clatter."

"Now, Monsieur Darrel," said the Purple Emperor, lifting a fat finger
and shooting a wicked glance at me, "Now, Monsieur Darrel, which did
you wear last night on your midnight stroll--sabots or shoes?"

I thought a moment. "Shoes--no, sabots. I just slipped on my chaussons
and went out in my sabots."

"Which was it, shoes or sabots?" snarled the Purple Emperor.

"Sabots, you fool."

"Are these your sabots?" he asked, lifting up a wooden shoe with my
initials cut on the instep.

"Yes," I replied.

"Then how did this blood come on the other one?" he shouted, and
held up a sabot, the mate to the first, on which a drop of blood had
spattered.

"I haven't the least idea," I said calmly; but my heart was beating
very fast and I was furiously angry.

"You blockhead!" I said, controlling my rage, "I'll make you pay for
this when they catch Yves Terrec and convict him. Brigadier Durand, do
your duty if you think I am under suspicion. Arrest me, but grant me
one favour. Put me in the Red Admiral's cottage, and I'll see whether
I can't find some clew that you have overlooked. Of course, I won't
disturb anything until the Commissaire arrives. Bah! You all make me
very ill."

"He's hardened," observed the Purple Emperor, wagging his head.

"What motive had I to kill the Red Admiral?" I asked them all
scornfully. And they all cried:

"None! Yves Terrec is the man!"

Passing out of the door I swung around and shook my finger at the
Purple Emperor.

"Oh, I'll make you dance for this, my friend," I said; and I followed
Brigadier Durand across the street to the cottage of the murdered man.


III.

They took me at my word and placed a gendarme with a bared sabre at the
gateway by the hedge.

"Give me your parole," said poor Durand, "and I will let you go
where you wish." But I refused, and began prowling about the cottage
looking for clews. I found lots of things that some people would have
considered most important, such as ashes from the Red Admiral's pipe,
footprints in a dusty vegetable bin, bottles smelling of Pouldu cider,
and dust--oh, lots of dust!--but I was not an expert, only a stupid,
everyday amateur; so I defaced the footprints with my thick shooting
boots, and I declined to examine the pipe ashes through a microscope,
although the Red Admiral's microscope stood on the table close at hand.

At last I found what I had been looking for, some long wisps of straw,
curiously depressed and flattened in the middle, and I was certain
I had found the evidence that would settle Yves Terrec for the rest
of his life. It was plain as the nose on your face. The straws were
sabot straws, flattened where the foot had pressed them, and sticking
straight out where they projected beyond the sabot. Now nobody in
St. Gildas used straw in sabots except a fisherman who lived near St.
Julien, and the straw in his sabots was ordinary yellow wheat straw!
This straw, or rather these straws, were from the stalks of the red
wheat which only grows inland, and which, everybody in St. Gildas
knew, Yves Terrec wore in his sabots. I was perfectly satisfied; and
when, three hours later, a hoarse shouting from the Bannalec Road
brought me to the window, I was not surprised to see Yves Terrec,
bloody, dishevelled, hatless, with his strong arms bound behind him,
walking with bent head between two mounted gendarmes. The crowd around
him swelled every minute, crying: "Parricide! parricide! Death to the
murderer!" As he passed my window I saw great clots of mud on his dusty
sabots, from the heels of which projected wisps of red wheat straw.
Then I walked back into the Red Admiral's study, determined to find
what the microscope would show on the wheat straws. I examined each
one very carefully, and then, my eyes aching, I rested my chin on my
hand and leaned back in the chair. I had not been as fortunate as some
detectives, for there was no evidence that the straws had ever been
used in a sabot at all. Furthermore, directly across the hallway stood
a carved Breton chest, and now I noticed for the first time that, from
beneath the closed lid, dozens of similar red wheat straws projected,
bent exactly as mine were bent by the weight of the lid.

I yawned in disgust. It was apparent that I was not cut out for a
detective, and I bitterly pondered over the difference between clews in
real life and clews in a detective story. After a while I rose, walked
over to the chest and opened the lid. The interior was wadded with
the red wheat straws, and on this wadding lay two curious glass jars,
two or three small vials, several empty bottles labelled chloroform, a
collecting jar of cyanide of potassium, and a book. In a farther corner
of the chest were some letters bearing English stamps, and also the
torn coverings of two parcels, all from England, and all directed to
the Red Admiral under his proper name of "Sieur Louis Jean Terrec, St.
Gildas, par Moëlan, Finistère."

All these traps I carried over to the desk, shut the lid of the chest,
and sat down to read the letters. They were written in commercial
French, evidently by an Englishman.

Freely translated, the contents of the first letter were as follows:

                                        "LONDON, _June 12, 1894_.

     "DEAR MONSIEUR (_sic_): Your kind favour of the 19th inst.
     received and contents noted. The latest work on the
     Lepidoptera of England is Blowzer's How to catch British
     Butterflies, with notes and tables, and an introduction by
     Sir Thomas Sniffer. The price of this work (in one volume,
     calf) is £5 or 125 francs of French money. A post-office
     order will receive our prompt attention. We beg to remain,

                               "Yours, etc.,
                                      "FRADLEY & TOOMER,
                               "470 Regent Square, London, S. W."

The next letter was even less interesting. It merely stated that the
money had been received and the book would be forwarded. The third
engaged my attention, and I shall quote it, the translation being a
free one:

     "DEAR SIR: Your letter of the 1st of July was duly received,
     and we at once referred it to Mr. Fradley himself. Mr. Fradley
     being much interested in your question, sent your letter to
     Professor Schweineri, of the Berlin Entomological Society,
     whose note Blowzer refers to on page 630, in his How to catch
     British Butterflies. We have just received an answer from
     Professor Schweineri, which we translate into French--(see
     inclosed slip). Professor Schweineri begs to present to you
     two jars of cythyl, prepared under his own supervision. We
     forward the same to you. Trusting that you will find
     everything satisfactory, we remain,

                                        "Yours sincerely,
                                              "FRADLEY & TOOMER."

The inclosed slip read as follows:

     "Messrs. FRADLEY & TOOMER,

     "GENTLEMEN: Cythaline, a complex hydrocarbon, was first used
     by Professor Schnoot, of Antwerp, a year ago. I discovered
     an analogous formula about the same time and named it cythyl.
     I have used it with great success everywhere. It is as
     certain as a magnet. I beg to present you three small jars,
     and would be pleased to have you forward two of them to your
     correspondent in St. Gildas with my compliments. Blowzer's
     quotation of me, on page 630 of his glorious work, How to
     catch British Butterflies, is correct.

                               "Yours, etc.,
                                      "HEINRICH SCHWEINERI,
                                        P.H.D., D.D., D.S., M.S."

When I had finished this letter I folded it up and put it into my
pocket with the others. Then I opened Blowzer's valuable work, How to
catch British Butterflies, and turned to page 630.

Now, although the Red Admiral could only have acquired the book very
recently, and although all the other pages were perfectly clean, this
particular page was thumbed black, and heavy pencil marks inclosed a
paragraph at the bottom of the page. This is the paragraph:

     "Professor Schweineri says: 'Of the two old methods used by
     collectors for the capture of the swift-winged, high-flying
     Apatura Iris, or Purple Emperor, the first, which was using a
     long-handled net, proved successful once in a thousand times;
     and the second, the placing of bait upon the ground, such as
     decayed meat, dead cats, rats, etc., was not only disagreeable,
     even for an enthusiastic collector, but also very uncertain.
     Once in five hundred times would the splendid butterfly leave
     the tops of his favourite oak trees to circle about the fetid
     bait offered. I have found cythyl a perfectly sure bait to
     draw this beautiful butterfly to the ground, where it can be
     easily captured. An ounce of cythyl placed in a yellow saucer
     under an oak tree, will draw to it every Apatura Iris within
     a radius of twenty miles. So, if any collector who possesses
     a little cythyl, even though it be in a sealed bottle in his
     pocket--if such a collector does not find a single Apatura
     Iris fluttering close about him within an hour, let him be
     satisfied that the Apatura Iris does not inhabit his country.'"

When I had finished reading this note I sat for a long while thinking
hard. Then I examined the two jars. They were labelled "_Cythyl_." One
was full, the other _nearly full_. "The rest must be on the corpse
of the Red Admiral," I thought, "no matter if it is in a corked
bottle----"

I took all the things back to the chest, laid them carefully on the
straw, and closed the lid. The gendarme sentinel at the gate saluted me
respectfully as I crossed over to the Groix Inn. The Inn was surrounded
by an excited crowd, and the hallway was choked with gendarmes and
peasants. On every side they greeted me cordially, announcing that the
real murderer was caught; but I pushed by them without a word and ran
upstairs to find Lys. She opened her door when I knocked and threw both
arms about my neck. I took her to my breast and kissed her. After a
moment I asked her if she would obey me no matter what I commanded, and
she said she would, with a proud humility that touched me.

"Then go at once to Yvette in St. Julien," I said. "Ask her to harness
the dog-cart and drive you to the convent in Quimperlé. Wait for me
there. Will you do this without questioning me, my darling?"

She raised her face to mine. "Kiss me," she said innocently; the next
moment she had vanished.

I walked deliberately into the Purple Emperor's room and peered into
the gauze-covered box which had held the chrysalis of Apatura Iris. It
was as I expected. The chrysalis was empty and transparent, and a great
crack ran down the middle of its back, but, on the netting inside the
box, a magnificent butterfly slowly waved its burnished purple wings;
for the chrysalis had given up its silent tenant, the butterfly symbol
of immortality. Then a great fear fell upon me. I know now that it was
the fear of the Black Priest, but neither then nor for years after did
I know that the Black Priest had ever lived on earth. As I bent over
the box I heard a confused murmur outside the house which ended in
a furious shout of "Parricide!" and I heard the gendarmes ride away
behind a wagon which rattled sharply on the flinty highway. I went
to the window. In the wagon sat Yves Terrec, bound and wild-eyed, two
gendarmes at either side of him, and all around the wagon rode mounted
gendarmes whose bared sabres scarcely kept the crowd away.

"Parricide!" they howled. "Let him die!"

I stepped back and opened the gauze-covered box. Very gently but firmly
I took the splendid butterfly by its closed fore wings and lifted it
unharmed between my thumb and forefinger. Then, holding it concealed
behind my back, I went down into the café.

Of all the crowd that had filled it, shouting for the death of Yves
Terrec, only three persons remained seated in front of the huge empty
fireplace. They were the Brigadier Durand, Max Fortin, the chemist
of Quimperlé, and the Purple Emperor. The latter looked abashed when
I entered, but I paid no attention to him and walked straight to the
chemist.

"Monsieur Fortin," I said, "do you know much about hydrocarbons?"

"They are my specialty," he said astonished.

"Have you ever heard of such a thing as cythyl?"

"Schweineri's cythyl? Oh, yes! We use it in perfumery."

"Good!" I said. "Has it an odour?"

"No--and, yes. One is always aware of its presence, but really nobody
can affirm it has an odour. It is curious," he continued, looking at
me, "it is very curious you should have asked me that, for all day I
have been imagining I detected the presence of cythyl."

"Do you imagine so now?" I asked.

"Yes, more than ever."

I sprang to the front door and tossed out the butterfly. The splendid
creature beat the air for a moment, flitted uncertainly hither
and thither, and then, to my astonishment, sailed majestically
back into the café and alighted on the hearthstone. For a moment
I was nonplussed, but when my eyes rested on the Purple Emperor I
comprehended in a flash.

"Lift that hearthstone!" I cried to the Brigadier Durand; "pry it up
with your scabbard!"

The Purple Emperor suddenly fell forward in his chair, his face ghastly
white, his jaw loose with terror.

"What is cythyl?" I shouted, seizing him by the arm; but he plunged
heavily from his chair, face downward on the floor, and at the same
moment a cry from the chemist made me turn. There stood the Brigadier
Durand, one hand supporting the hearthstone, one hand raised in horror.
There stood Max Fortin, the chemist, rigid with excitement, and below,
in the hollow bed where the hearthstone had rested, lay a crushed mass
of bleeding human flesh, from the midst of which stared a cheap glass
eye. I seized the Purple Emperor and dragged him to his feet.

"Look!" I cried; "look at your old friend, the Red Admiral!" but he
only smiled in a vacant way, and rolled his head muttering; "Bait for
butterflies! Cythyl! Oh, no, no, no! You can't do it, Admiral, d'ye
see. I alone own the Purple Emperor! I alone am the Purple Emperor!"

And the same carriage that bore me to Quimperlé to claim my bride,
carried him to Quimper, gagged and bound, a foaming, howling lunatic.

       *       *       *       *       *

This, then, is the story of the Purple Emperor. I might tell you a
pleasanter story if I chose; but concerning the fish that I had hold
of, whether it was a salmon, a grilse, or a sea trout, I may not say,
because I have promised Lys, and she has promised me, that no power on
earth shall wring from our lips the mortifying confession that the fish
escaped.




POMPE FUNÈBRE.


            A wind-swept sky,
  The waste of moorland stretching to the west;
  The sea, low moaning in a strange unrest--
            A seagull's cry.

            Washed by the tide,
  The rocks lie sullen in the waning light;
  The foam breaks in long strips of hungry white,
            Dissatisfied.

                                        BATEMAN.




POMPE FUNÈBRE.

  In the days when the keepers of the house shall tremble.


When I first saw the sexton he was standing motionless behind a stone.
Presently he moved on again, pausing at times, and turning right and
left with that nervous, jerky motion that always chills me.

His path lay across the blighted moss and withered leaves scattered
in moist layers along the bank of the little brown stream, and I,
wondering what his errand might be, followed, passing silently over the
rotting forest mould. Once or twice he heard me, for I saw him stop
short, a blot of black and orange in the sombre woods; but he always
started on again, hurrying at times as though the dead might grow
impatient.

For the sexton that I followed through the November forest was one
of those small creatures that God has sent to bury little things that
die alone in the world. Undertaker, sexton, mute, and gravedigger in
one, this thing, robed in black and orange, buries all things that die
unheeded by the world. And so they call it--this little beetle in black
and orange--the "sexton."

How he hurried! I looked up into the gray sky where ashen branches,
interlaced, swayed in unfelt winds, and I heard the dry leaves rattle
in the tree tops, and the thud of acorns on the mould. A sombre bird
peered at me from a heap of brush, then ran pattering over the leaves.

The sexton had reached a bit of broken ground, and was scuffling over
sticks and gulleys toward a brown tuft of withered grass above. I dared
not help him; besides, I could not bring myself to touch him, he was so
horribly absorbed in his errand.

I halted for a moment. The eagerness of this live creature to find his
dead and handle it; the odour of death and decay in this little forest
world, where I had waited for spring when Lys moved among the flowering
gorse, singing like a throstle in the wind--all this troubled me, and
I lagged behind.

The sexton scrambled over the dead grass, raising his seared eyes at
every wave of wind. The wind brought sadness with it, the scent of
lifeless trees, the vague rustle of gorse buds, yellow and dry as paper
flowers.

Along the stream, rotting water plants, scorched and frost-blighted,
lay massed above the mud. I saw their pallid stems swaying like worms
in the listless current.

The sexton had reached a mouldering stump, and now he seemed undecided.
I sat down on a fallen tree, moist and bleached, that crumbled under
my touch, leaving a stale odour in the air. Overhead a crow rose
heavily and flapped out into the moorland; the wind rattled the stark
blackthorns; a single drop of rain touched my cheek. I looked into the
stream for some sign of life; there was nothing, except a shapeless
creature that might have been a blindworm, lying belly upward on the
mud bottom. I touched it with a stick. It was stiff and dead.

The wind among the sham paperlike gorse buds filled the woods with a
silken rustle. I put out my hand and touched a yellow blossom; it felt
like an immortelle on a funeral pillow.

The sexton had moved on again; something, perhaps a musty spider's web,
had stuck to one leg, and he dragged it as he laboured on through the
wood. Some little field mouse torn by weasel or kestrel, some crushed
mole, some tiny dead pile of fur or feather, lay not far off, stricken
by God or man or brother creature. And the sexton knew it--how, God
knows! But he knew it, and hurried on to his tryst with the dead.

His path now lay along the edge of a tidal inlet from the Groix River.
I looked down at the gray water through the leafless branches, and I
saw a small snake, head raised, swim from a submerged clot of weeds
into the shadow of a rock. There was a curlew, too, somewhere in the
black swamp, whose dreary, persistent call cursed the silence.

I wondered when the sexton would fly; for he could fly if he chose; it
is only when the dead are near, very near, that he creeps. The soiled
mess of cobweb still stuck to him, and his progress was impeded by
it. Once I saw a small brown and white spider, striped like a zebra,
running swiftly in his tracks, but the sexton turned and raised his
two clubbed forelegs in a horrid imploring attitude that still had
something of menace under it. The spider backed away and sidled under
a stone.

When anything that is dying--sick and close to death--falls upon the
face of the earth, something moves in the blue above, floating like
a moat; then another, then others. These specks that grow out of the
fathomless azure vault are jewelled flies. They come to wait for Death.

The sexton also arranges rendezvous with Death, but never waits; Death
must arrive the first.

When the heavy clover is ablaze with painted wings, when bees hum and
blunder among the white-thorn, or pass by like swift singing bullets,
the sexton snaps open his black and orange wings and hums across the
clover with the bees. Death in a scented garden, the tokens of the
plague on a fair young breast, the gray flag of fear in the face of
one who reels into the arms of Destruction, the sexton scrambling in
the lap of spring, folding his sleek wings, unfolding them to ape the
buzz of bees, passing over sweet clover tops to the putrid flesh that
summons him--these things must be and will be to the end.

The sexton was running now--running fast, trailing the cobweb over
twigs and mud. The edge of the wood was near, for I could see the
winter wheat, like green scenery in a theatre, stretching for miles
across the cliffs, crude as painted grass. And as I crept through
the brittle forest fringe, I saw a figure lying face downward in the
wheat--a girl's slender form, limp, motionless.

The sexton darted under her breast.

Then I threw myself down beside her, crying, "Lys! Lys!" And as I
cried, the icy rain burst out across the moors, and the trees dashed
their stark limbs together till the whole spectral forest tossed and
danced, and the wind roared among the cliffs.

And through the Dance of Death Lys trembled in my arms, and sobbed and
clung to me, murmuring that the Purple Emperor was dead; but the wind
tore the words from her white lips, and flung them out across the sea,
where the winter lightning lashed the stark heights of Groix.

Then the fear of death was stilled in my soul, and I raised her from
the ground, holding her close.

And I saw the sexton, just beyond us, hurry across the ground and seek
shelter under a little dead skylark, stiff-winged, muddy, lying alone
in the rain.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the storm, above us, a bird hovered singing through the rain. It
passed us twice, still singing, and as it passed again we saw the
shadow it cast upon the world was whiter than snow.




THE MESSENGER.


  Little gray messenger,
  Robed like painted Death,
  Your robe is dust.
  Whom do you seek
  Among lilies and closed buds
      At dusk?

  Among lilies and closed buds
      At dusk,
  Whom do you seek,
  Little gray messenger,
  Robed in the awful panoply
  Of painted Death?

                                        R. W. C.




THE MESSENGER.

                All-wise,
  Hast thou seen all there is to see with thy two eyes?
    Dost thou know all there is to know, and so,
                Omniscient,
  Darest thou still to say thy brother lies?

                                        R. W. C.

"The bullet entered here," said Max Fortin, and he placed his middle
finger over a smooth hole exactly in the centre of the forehead.

I sat down upon a mound of dry seaweed and unslung my fowling piece.

The little chemist cautiously felt the edges of the shot-hole, first
with his middle finger, then with his thumb.

"Let me see the skull again," said I.

Max Fortin picked it up from the sod.

"It's like all the others," he observed. I nodded, without offering to
take it from him. After a moment he thoughtfully replaced it upon the
grass at my feet.

"It's like all the others," he repeated, wiping his glasses on his
handkerchief. "I thought you might care to see one of the skulls, so
I brought this over from the gravel pit. The men from Bannalec are
digging yet. They ought to stop."

"How many skulls are there altogether?" I inquired.

"They found thirty-eight skulls; there are thirty-nine noted in the
list. They lie piled up in the gravel pit on the edge of Le Bihan's
wheat field. The men are at work yet. Le Bihan is going to stop them."

"Let's go over," said I; and I picked up my gun and started across the
cliffs, Fortin on one side, Môme on the other.

"Who has the list?" I asked, lighting my pipe. "You say there is a
list?"

"The list was found rolled up in a brass cylinder," said the little
chemist. He added: "You should not smoke here. You know that if a
single spark drifted into the wheat----"

"Ah, but I have a cover to my pipe," said I, smiling.

Fortin watched me as I closed the pepper-box arrangement over the
glowing bowl of the pipe. Then he continued:

"The list was made out on thick yellow paper; the brass tube has
preserved it. It is as fresh to-day as it was in 1760. You shall see
it."

"Is that the date?"

"The list is dated 'April, 1760.' The Brigadier Durand has it. It is
not written in French."

"Not written in French!" I exclaimed.

"No," replied Fortin solemnly, "it is written in Breton."

"But," I protested, "the Breton language was never written or printed
in 1760."

"Except by priests," said the chemist.

"I have heard of but one priest who ever wrote the Breton language," I
began.

Fortin stole a glance at my face.

"You mean--the Black Priest?" he asked.

I nodded.

Fortin opened his mouth to speak again, hesitated, and finally shut his
teeth obstinately over the wheat stem that he was chewing.

"And the Black Priest?" I suggested encouragingly. But I knew it was
useless; for it is easier to move the stars from their courses than
to make an obstinate Breton talk. We walked on for a minute or two in
silence.

"Where is the Brigadier Durand?" I asked, motioning Môme to come out of
the wheat, which he was trampling as though it were heather. As I spoke
we came in sight of the farther edge of the wheat field and the dark,
wet mass of cliffs beyond.

"Durand is down there--you can see him; he stands just behind the Mayor
of St. Gildas."

"I see," said I; and we struck straight down, following a sun-baked
cattle path across the heather.

When we reached the edge of the wheat field, Le Bihan, the Mayor of St.
Gildas, called to me, and I tucked my gun under my arm and skirted the
wheat to where he stood.

"Thirty-eight skulls," he said in his thin, high-pitched voice; "there
is but one more, and I am opposed to further search. I suppose Fortin
told you?"

I shook hands with him, and returned the salute of the Brigadier Durand.

"I am opposed to further search," repeated Le Bihan, nervously picking
at the mass of silver buttons which covered the front of his velvet and
broadcloth jacket like a breastplate of scale armour.

Durand pursed up his lips, twisted his tremendous mustache, and hooked
his thumbs in his sabre belt.

"As for me," he said, "I am in favour of further search."

"Further search for what--for the thirty-ninth skull?" I asked.

Le Bihan nodded. Durand frowned at the sunlit sea, rocking like a bowl
of molten gold from the cliffs to the horizon. I followed his eyes. On
the dark glistening cliffs, silhouetted against the glare of the sea,
sat a cormorant, black, motionless, its horrible head raised toward
heaven.

"Where is that list, Durand?" I asked.

The gendarme rummaged in his despatch pouch and produced a brass
cylinder about a foot long. Very gravely he unscrewed the head and
dumped out a scroll of thick yellow paper closely covered with writing
on both sides. At a nod from Le Bihan he handed me the scroll. But I
could make nothing of the coarse writing, now faded to a dull brown.

"Come, come, Le Bihan," I said impatiently, "translate it, won't you?
You and Max Fortin make a lot of mystery out of nothing, it seems."

Le Bihan went to the edge of the pit where the three Bannalec men were
digging, gave an order or two in Breton, and turned to me.

As I came to the edge of the pit the Bannalec men were removing
a square piece of sail-cloth from what appeared to be a pile of
cobblestones.

"Look!" said Le Bihan shrilly. I looked. The pile below was a heap of
skulls. After a moment I clambered down the gravel sides of the pit and
walked over to the men of Bannalec. They saluted me gravely, leaning on
their picks and shovels, and wiping their sweating faces with sunburned
hands.

"How many?" said I in Breton.

"Thirty-eight," they replied.

I glanced around. Beyond the heap of skulls lay two piles of human
bones. Beside these was a mound of broken, rusted bits of iron and
steel. Looking closer, I saw that this mound was composed of rusty
bayonets, sabre blades, scythe blades, with here and there a tarnished
buckle attached to a bit of leather hard as iron.

I picked up a couple of buttons and a belt plate. The buttons bore the
royal arms of England; the belt plate was emblazoned with the English
arms, and also with the number "27."

"I have heard my grandfather speak of the terrible English regiment,
the 27th Foot, which landed and stormed the fort up there," said one of
the Bannalec men.

"Oh!" said I; "then these are the bones of English soldiers?"

"Yes," said the men of Bannalec.

Le Bihan was calling to me from the edge of the pit above, and I handed
the belt plate and buttons to the men and climbed the side of the
excavation.

"Well," said I, trying to prevent Môme from leaping up and licking my
face as I emerged from the pit, "I suppose you know what these bones
are. What are you going to do with them?"

"There was a man," said Le Bihan angrily, "an Englishman, who passed
here in a dog-cart on his way to Quimper about an hour ago, and what do
you suppose he wished to do?"

"Buy the relics?" I asked, smiling.

"Exactly--the pig!" piped the mayor of St. Gildas. "Jean Marie Tregunc,
who found the bones, was standing there where Max Fortin stands, and do
you know what he answered? He spat upon the ground, and said: 'Pig of
an Englishman, do you take me for a desecrator of graves?'"

I knew Tregunc, a sober, blue-eyed Breton, who lived from one year's
end to the other without being able to afford a single bit of meat for
a meal.

"How much did the Englishman offer Tregunc?" I asked.

"Two hundred francs for the skulls alone."

I thought of the relic hunters and the relic buyers on the battlefields
of our civil war.

"Seventeen hundred and sixty is long ago," I said.

"Respect for the dead can never die," said Fortin.

"And the English soldiers came here to kill your fathers and burn your
homes," I continued.

"They were murderers and thieves, but--they are dead," said Tregunc,
coming up from the beach below, his long sea rake balanced on his
dripping jersey.

"How much do you earn every year, Jean Marie?" I asked, turning to
shake hands with him.

"Two hundred and twenty francs, monsieur."

"Forty-five dollars a year," I said. "Bah! you are worth more, Jean.
Will you take care of my garden for me? My wife wished me to ask you.
I think it would be worth one hundred francs a month to you and to me.
Come on, Le Bihan--come along, Fortin--and you, Durand. I want somebody
to translate that list into French for me."

Tregunc stood gazing at me, his blue eyes dilated.

"You may begin at once," I said, smiling, "if the salary suits you?"

"It suits," said Tregunc, fumbling for his pipe in a silly way that
annoyed Le Bihan.

"Then go and begin your work," cried the mayor impatiently; and
Tregunc started across the moors toward St. Gildas, taking off his
velvet-ribboned cap to me and gripping his sea rake very hard.

"You offer him more than my salary," said the mayor, after a moment's
contemplation of his silver buttons.

"Pooh!" said I, "what do you do for your salary except play dominoes
with Max Fortin at the Groix Inn?"

Le Bihan turned red, but Durand rattled his sabre and winked at Max
Fortin, and I slipped my arm through the arm of the sulky magistrate,
laughing.

"There's a shady spot under the cliff," I said; "come on, Le Bihan, and
read me what is in the scroll."

In a few moments we reached the shadow of the cliff, and I threw myself
upon the turf, chin on hand, to listen.

The gendarme, Durand, also sat down, twisting his mustache into
needlelike points. Fortin leaned against the cliff, polishing his
glasses and examining us with vague, near-sighted eyes; and Le Bihan,
the mayor, planted himself in our midst, rolling up the scroll and
tucking it under his arm.

"First of all," he began in a shrill voice, "I am going to light my
pipe, and while lighting it I shall tell you what I have heard about
the attack on the fort yonder. My father told me; his father told him."

He jerked his head in the direction of the ruined fort, a small, square
stone structure on the sea cliff, now nothing but crumbling walls. Then
he slowly produced a tobacco pouch, a bit of flint and tinder, and a
long-stemmed pipe fitted with a microscopical bowl of baked clay. To
fill such a pipe requires ten minutes' close attention. To smoke it to
a finish takes but four puffs. It is very Breton, this Breton pipe. It
is the crystallization of everything Breton.

"Go on," said I, lighting a cigarette.

"The fort," said the mayor, "was built by Louis XIV, and was dismantled
twice by the English. Louis XV restored it in 1739. In 1760 it was
carried by assault by the English. They came across from the island
of Groix--three shiploads--and they stormed the fort and sacked St.
Julien yonder, and they started to burn St. Gildas--you can see the
marks of their bullets on my house yet; but the men of Bannalec and the
men of Lorient fell upon them with pike and scythe and blunderbuss,
and those who did not run away lie there below in the gravel pit
now--thirty-eight of them."

"And the thirty-ninth skull?" I asked, finishing my cigarette.

The mayor had succeeded in filling his pipe, and now he began to put
his tobacco pouch away.

"The thirty-ninth skull," he mumbled, holding the pipestem between his
defective teeth--"the thirty-ninth skull is no business of mine. I have
told the Bannalec men to cease digging."

"But what is--whose is the missing skull?" I persisted curiously.

The mayor was busy trying to strike a spark to his tinder. Presently he
set it aglow, applied it to his pipe, took the prescribed four puffs,
knocked the ashes out of the bowl, and gravely replaced the pipe in his
pocket.

"The missing skull?" he asked.

"Yes," said I impatiently.

The mayor slowly unrolled the scroll and began to read, translating
from the Breton into French. And this is what he read:

                                     "ON THE CLIFFS OF ST. GILDAS,

                                            "_April 13, 1760_.

     "On this day, by order of the Count of Soisic, general in
     chief of the Breton forces now lying in Kerselec Forest, the
     bodies of thirty-eight English soldiers of the 27th, 50th,
     and 72d regiments of Foot were buried in this spot, together
     with their arms and equipments."

The mayor paused and glanced at me reflectively.

"Go on, Le Bihan," I said.

"With them," continued the mayor, turning the scroll and reading on the
other side, "was buried the body of that vile traitor who betrayed the
fort to the English. The manner of his death was as follows: By order
of the most noble Count of Soisic, the traitor was first branded upon
the forehead with the brand of an arrowhead. The iron burned through
the flesh, and was pressed heavily so that the brand should even burn
into the bone of the skull. The traitor was then led out and bidden to
kneel. He admitted having guided the English from the island of Groix.
Although a priest and a Frenchman, he had violated his priestly office
to aid him in discovering the password to the fort. This password he
extorted during confession from a young Breton girl who was in the
habit of rowing across from the island of Groix to visit her husband
in the fort. When the fort fell, this young girl, crazed by the death
of her husband, sought the Count of Soisic and told how the priest had
forced her to confess to him all she knew about the fort. The priest
was arrested at St. Gildas as he was about to cross the river to
Lorient. When arrested he cursed the girl, Marie Trevec----"

"What!" I exclaimed, "Marie Trevec!"

"Marie Trevec," repeated Le Bihan; "the priest cursed Marie Trevec, and
all her family and descendants. He was shot as he knelt, having a mask
of leather over his face, because the Bretons who composed the squad of
execution refused to fire at a priest unless his face was concealed.
The priest was l'Abbé Sorgue, commonly known as the Black Priest on
account of his dark face and swarthy eyebrows. He was buried with a
stake through his heart."

Le Bihan paused, hesitated, looked at me, and handed the manuscript
back to Durand. The gendarme took it and slipped it into the brass
cylinder.

"So," said I, "the thirty-ninth skull is the skull of the Black Priest."

"Yes," said Fortin. "I hope they won't find it."

"I have forbidden them to proceed," said the mayor querulously. "You
heard me, Max Fortin."

I rose and picked up my gun. Môme came and pushed his head into my hand.

"That's a fine dog," observed Durand, also rising.

"Why don't you wish to find his skull?" I asked Le Bihan. "It would be
curious to see whether the arrow brand really burned into the bone."

"There is something in that scroll that I didn't read to you," said the
mayor grimly. "Do you wish to know what it is?"

"Of course," I replied in surprise.

"Give me the scroll again, Durand," he said; then he read from
the bottom: "I, l'Abbé Sorgue, forced to write the above by my
executioners, have written it in my own blood; and with it I leave my
curse. My curse on St. Gildas, on Marie Trevec, and on her descendants.
I will come back to St. Gildas when my remains are disturbed. Woe to
that Englishman whom my branded skull shall touch!"

"What rot!" I said. "Do you believe it was really written in his own
blood?"

"I am going to test it," said Fortin, "at the request of Monsieur le
Maire. I am not anxious for the job, however."

"See," said Le Bihan, holding out the scroll to me, "it is signed,
'l'Abbé Sorgue.'"

I glanced curiously over the paper.

"It must be the Black Priest," I said. "He was the only man who wrote
in the Breton language. This is a wonderfully interesting discovery,
for now, at last, the mystery of the Black Priest's disappearance is
cleared up. You will, of course, send this scroll to Paris, Le Bihan?"

"No," said the mayor obstinately, "it shall be buried in the pit below
where the rest of the Black Priest lies."

I looked at him and recognised that argument would be useless. But
still I said, "It will be a loss to history, Monsieur Le Bihan."

"All the worse for history, then," said the enlightened Mayor of St.
Gildas.

We had sauntered back to the gravel pit while speaking. The men of
Bannalec were carrying the bones of the English soldiers toward the
St. Gildas cemetery, on the cliffs to the east, where already a knot of
white-coiffed women stood in attitudes of prayer; and I saw the sombre
robe of a priest among the crosses of the little graveyard.

"They were thieves and assassins; they are dead now," muttered Max
Fortin.

"Respect the dead," repeated the Mayor of St. Gildas, looking after the
Bannalec men.

"It was written in that scroll that Marie Trevec, of Groix Island, was
cursed by the priest--she and her descendants," I said, touching Le
Bihan on the arm. "There was a Marie Trevec who married an Yves Trevec
of St. Gildas----"

"It is the same," said Le Bihan, looking at me obliquely.

"Oh!" said I; "then they were ancestors of my wife."

"Do you fear the curse?" asked Le Bihan.

"What?" I laughed.

"There was the case of the Purple Emperor," said Max Fortin timidly.

Startled for a moment, I faced him, then shrugged my shoulders and
kicked at a smooth bit of rock which lay near the edge of the pit,
almost embedded in gravel.

"Do you suppose the Purple Emperor drank himself crazy because he was
descended from Marie Trevec?" I asked contemptuously.

"Of course not," said Max Fortin hastily.

"Of course not," piped the mayor. "I only---- Hello! what's that you're
kicking?"

"What?" said I, glancing down, at the same time involuntarily giving
another kick. The smooth bit of rock dislodged itself and rolled out of
the loosened gravel at my feet.

"The thirty-ninth skull!" I exclaimed. "By jingo, its the noddle of the
Black Priest! See! there is the arrowhead branded on the front!"

The mayor stepped back. Max Fortin also retreated. There was a pause,
during which I looked at them, and they looked anywhere but at me.

"I don't like it," said the mayor at last, in a husky, high voice. "I
don't like it! The scroll says he will come back to St. Gildas when his
remains are disturbed. I--I don't like it, Monsieur Darrel----"

"Bosh!" said I; "the poor wicked devil is where he can't get out. For
Heaven's sake, Le Bihan, what is this stuff you are talking in the year
of grace 1896?"

The mayor gave me a look.

"And he says 'Englishman.' You are an Englishman, Monsieur Darrel," he
announced.

"You know better. You know I'm an American."

"It's all the same," said the Mayor of St. Gildas, obstinately.

"No, it isn't!" I answered, much exasperated, and deliberately pushed
the skull till it rolled into the bottom of the gravel pit below.

"Cover it up," said I; "bury the scroll with it too, if you insist, but
I think you ought to send it to Paris. Don't look so gloomy, Fortin,
unless you believe in were-wolves and ghosts. Hey! what the--what
the devil's the matter with you, anyway? What are you staring at, Le
Bihan?"

"Come, come," muttered the mayor in a low, tremulous voice, "it's time
we got out of this. Did you see? Did you see, Fortin?"

"I saw," whispered Max Fortin, pallid with fright.

The two men were almost running across the sunny pasture now, and I
hastened after them, demanding to know what was the matter.

"Matter!" chattered the mayor, gasping with exasperation and terror.
"The skull is rolling uphill again!" and he burst into a terrified
gallop. Max Fortin followed close behind.

I watched them stampeding across the pasture, then turned toward the
gravel pit, mystified, incredulous. The skull was lying on the edge
of the pit, exactly where it had been before I pushed it over the
edge. For a second I stared at it; a singular chilly feeling crept up
my spinal column, and I turned and walked away, sweat starting from
the root of every hair on my head. Before I had gone twenty paces the
absurdity of the whole thing struck me. I halted, hot with shame and
annoyance, and retraced my steps.

There lay the skull.

"I rolled a stone down instead of the skull," I muttered to myself.
Then with the butt of my gun I pushed the skull over the edge of the
pit and watched it roll to the bottom; and as it struck the bottom
of the pit, Môme, my dog, suddenly whipped his tail between his legs,
whimpered, and made off across the moor.

"Môme!" I shouted, angry and astonished; but the dog only fled the
faster, and I ceased calling from sheer surprise.

"What the mischief is the matter with that dog!" I thought. He had
never before played me such a trick.

Mechanically I glanced into the pit, but I could not see the skull. I
looked down. The skull lay at my feet again, touching them.

"Good heavens!" I stammered, and struck at it blindly with my gunstock.
The ghastly thing flew into the air, whirling over and over, and rolled
again down the sides of the pit to the bottom. Breathlessly I stared at
it, then, confused and scarcely comprehending, I stepped back from the
pit, still facing it, one, ten, twenty paces, my eyes almost starting
from my head, as though I expected to see the thing roll up from the
bottom of the pit under my very gaze. At last I turned my back to the
pit and strode out across the gorse-covered moorland toward my home. As
I reached the road that winds from St. Gildas to St. Julien I gave one
hasty glance at the pit over my shoulder. The sun shone hot on the sod
about the excavation. There was something white and bare and round on
the turf at the edge of the pit. It might have been a stone; there were
plenty of them lying about.


II.

When I entered my garden I saw Môme sprawling on the stone doorstep. He
eyed me sideways and flopped his tail.

"Are you not mortified, you idiot dog?" I said, looking about the upper
windows for Lys.

Môme rolled over on his back and raised one deprecating forepaw, as
though to ward off calamity.

"Don't act as though I was in the habit of beating you to death," I
said, disgusted. I had never in my life raised whip to the brute. "But
you are a fool dog," I continued. "No, you needn't come to be babied
and wept over; Lys can do that, if she insists, but I am ashamed of
you, and you can go to the devil."

Môme slunk off into the house, and I followed, mounting directly to my
wife's boudoir. It was empty.

"Where has she gone?" I said, looking hard at Môme, who had followed
me. "Oh! I see you don't know. Don't pretend you do. Come off that
lounge! Do you think Lys wants tan-coloured hairs all over her lounge?"

I rang the bell for Catherine and 'Fine, but they didn't know where
"madame" had gone; so I went into my room, bathed, exchanged my
somewhat grimy shooting clothes for a suit of warm, soft knickerbockers,
and, after lingering some extra moments over my toilet--for I was
particular, now that I had married Lys--I went down to the garden and
took a chair out under the fig-trees.

"Where can she be?" I wondered. Môme came sneaking out to be comforted,
and I forgave him for Lys's sake, whereupon he frisked.

"You bounding cur," said I, "now what on earth started you off across
the moor? If you do it again I'll push you along with a charge of dust
shot."

As yet I had scarcely dared think about the ghastly hallucination of
which I had been a victim, but now I faced it squarely, flushing a
little with mortification at the thought of my hasty retreat from the
gravel pit.

"To think," I said aloud, "that those old woman's tales of Max Fortin
and Le Bihan should have actually made me see what didn't exist at all!
I lost my nerve like a schoolboy in a dark bedroom." For I knew now
that I had mistaken a round stone for a skull each time, and had pushed
a couple of big pebbles into the pit instead of the skull itself.

"By jingo!" said I, "I'm nervous; my liver must be in a devil of a
condition if I see such things when I'm awake! Lys will know what to
give me."

I felt mortified and irritated and sulky, and thought disgustedly of Le
Bihan and Max Fortin.

But after a while I ceased speculating, dismissed the mayor, the
chemist, and the skull from my mind, and smoked pensively, watching the
sun low dipping in the western ocean. As the twilight fell for a moment
over ocean and moorland, a wistful, restless happiness filled my heart,
the happiness that all men know--all men who have loved.

Slowly the purple mist crept out over the sea; the cliffs darkened; the
forest was shrouded.

Suddenly the sky above burned with the afterglow, and the world was
alight again.

Cloud after cloud caught the rose dye; the cliffs were tinted with
it; moor and pasture, heather and forest burned and pulsated with the
gentle flush. I saw the gulls turning and tossing above the sand bar,
their snowy wings tipped with pink; I saw the sea swallows sheering
the surface of the still river, stained to its placid depths with warm
reflections of the clouds. The twitter of drowsy hedge birds broke out
in the stillness; a salmon rolled its shining side above tide-water.

The interminable monotone of the ocean intensified the silence. I
sat motionless, holding my breath as one who listens to the first low
rumour of an organ. All at once the pure whistle of a nightingale cut
the silence, and the first moonbeam silvered the wastes of mist-hung
waters.

I raised my head.

Lys stood before me in the garden.

When we had kissed each other, we linked arms and moved up and down
the gravel walks, watching the moonbeams sparkle on the sand bar as
the tide ebbed and ebbed. The broad beds of white pinks about us were
atremble with hovering white moths; the October roses hung all abloom,
perfuming the salt wind.

"Sweetheart," I said, "where is Yvonne? Has she promised to spend
Christmas with us?"

"Yes, Dick; she drove me down from Plougat this afternoon. She sent her
love to you. I am not jealous. What did you shoot?"

"A hare and four partridges. They are in the gun room. I told Catherine
not to touch them until you had seen them."

Now I suppose I knew that Lys could not be particularly enthusiastic
over game or guns; but she pretended she was, and always scornfully
denied that it was for my sake and not for the pure love of sport. So
she dragged me off to inspect the rather meagre game bag, and she paid
me pretty compliments and gave a little cry of delight and pity as I
lifted the enormous hare out of the sack by his ears.

"He'll eat no more of our lettuce," I said, attempting to justify the
assassination.

"Unhappy little bunny--and what a beauty! O Dick, you are a splendid
shot, are you not?"

I evaded the question and hauled out a partridge.

"Poor little dead things!" said Lys in a whisper; "it seems a
pity--doesn't it, Dick? But then you are so clever----"

"We'll have them broiled," I said guardedly; "tell Catherine."

Catherine came in to take away the game, and presently 'Fine Lelocard,
Lys's maid, announced dinner, and Lys tripped away to her boudoir.

I stood an instant contemplating her blissfully, thinking, "My boy,
you're the happiest fellow in the world--you're in love with your
wife!"

I walked into the dining room, beamed at the plates, walked out again;
met Tregunc in the hallway, beamed on him; glanced into the kitchen,
beamed at Catherine, and went up stairs, still beaming.

Before I could knock at Lys's door it opened, and Lys came hastily out.
When she saw me she gave a little cry of relief, and nestled close to
my breast.

"There is something peering in at my window," she said.

"What!" I cried angrily.

"A man, I think, disguised as a priest, and he has a mask on. He must
have climbed up by the bay tree."

I was down the stairs and out of doors in no time. The moonlit garden
was absolutely deserted. Tregunc came up, and together we searched the
hedge and shrubbery around the house and out to the road.

"Jean Marie," said I at length, "loose my bulldog--he knows you--and
take your supper on the porch where you can watch. My wife says the
fellow is disguised as a priest, and wears a mask."

Tregunc showed his white teeth in a smile. "He will not care to venture
in here again, I think, Monsieur Darrel."

I went back and found Lys seated quietly at the table.

"The soup is ready, dear," she said. "Don't worry; it was only some
foolish lout from Bannalec. No one in St. Gildas or St. Julien would do
such a thing."

I was too much exasperated to reply at first, but Lys treated it as a
stupid joke, and after a while I began to look at it in that light.

Lys told me about Yvonne, and reminded me of my promise to have Herbert
Stuart down to meet her.

"You wicked diplomat!" I protested. "Herbert is in Paris, and hard at
work for the Salon."

"Don't you think he might spare a week to flirt with the prettiest girl
in Finistère?" inquired Lys innocently.

"Prettiest girl! Not much!" I said.

"Who is, then?" urged Lys.

I laughed a trifle sheepishly.

"I suppose you mean me, Dick," said Lys, colouring up.

"Now I bore you, don't I?"

"Bore me? Ah, no, Dick."

After coffee and cigarettes were served I spoke about Tregunc, and Lys
approved.

"Poor Jean! he will be glad, won't he? What a dear fellow you are!"

"Nonsense," said I; "we need a gardener; you said so yourself, Lys."

But Lys leaned over and kissed me, and then bent down and hugged Môme,
who whistled through his nose in sentimental appreciation.

"I am a very happy woman," said Lys.

"Môme was a very bad dog to-day," I observed.

"Poor Môme!" said Lys, smiling.

When dinner was over and Môme lay snoring before the blaze--for the
October nights are often chilly in Finistère--Lys curled up in the
chimney corner with her embroidery, and gave me a swift glance from
under her drooping lashes.

"You look like a schoolgirl, Lys," I said teasingly. "I don't believe
you are sixteen yet."

She pushed back her heavy burnished hair thoughtfully. Her wrist was as
white as surf foam.

"Have we been married four years? I don't believe it," I said.

She gave me another swift glance and touched the embroidery on her
knee, smiling faintly.

"I see," said I, also smiling at the embroidered garment. "Do you think
it will fit?"

"Fit?" repeated Lys. Then she laughed.

"And," I persisted, "are you perfectly sure that you--er--we shall need
it?"

"Perfectly," said Lys. A delicate colour touched her cheeks and neck.
She held up the little garment, all fluffy with misty lace and wrought
with quaint embroidery.

"It is very gorgeous," said I; "don't use your eyes too much, dearest.
May I smoke a pipe?"

"Of course," she said, selecting a skein of pale blue silk.

For a while I sat and smoked in silence, watching her slender fingers
among the tinted silks and thread of gold.

Presently she spoke: "What did you say your crest is, Dick?"

"My crest? Oh, something or other rampant on a something or other----"

"Dick!"

"Dearest?"

"Don't be flippant."

"But I really forget. It's an ordinary crest; everybody in New York has
them. No family should be without 'em."

"You are disagreeable, Dick. Send Josephine upstairs for my album."

"Are you going to put that crest on the--the--whatever it is?"

"I am; and my own crest, too."

I thought of the Purple Emperor and wondered a little.

"You didn't know I had one, did you?" she smiled.

"What is it?" I replied evasively.

"You shall see. Ring for Josephine."

I rang, and, when 'Fine appeared, Lys gave her some orders in a low
voice, and Josephine trotted away, bobbing her white-coiffed head with
a "Bien, madame!"

After a few minutes she returned, bearing a tattered, musty volume,
from which the gold and blue had mostly disappeared.

I took the book in my hands and examined the ancient emblazoned covers.

"Lilies!" I exclaimed.

"Fleur-de-lis," said my wife demurely.

"Oh!" said I, astonished, and opened the book.

"You have never before seen this book?" asked Lys, with a touch of
malice in her eyes.

"You know I haven't. Hello! what's this? Oho! So there should be a
_de_ before Trevec? Lys de Trevec? Then why in the world did the Purple
Emperor----"

"Dick!" cried Lys.

"All right," said I. "Shall I read about the Sieur de Trevec who
rode to Saladin's tent alone to seek for medicine for St. Louis? or
shall I read about--what is it? Oh, here it is, all down in black and
white--about the Marquis de Trevec who drowned himself before Alva's
eyes rather than surrender the banner of the fleur-de-lis to Spain?
It's all written here. But, dear, how about that soldier named Trevec
who was killed in the old fort on the cliff yonder?"

"He dropped the _de_, and the Trevecs since then have been
Republicans," said Lys--"all except me."

"That's quite right," said I; "it is time that we Republicans should
agree upon some feudal system. My dear, I drink to the king!" and I
raised my wine-glass and looked at Lys.

"To the king," said Lys, flushing. She smoothed out the tiny garment
on her knees; she touched the glass with her lips; her eyes were very
sweet. I drained the glass to the king.

After a silence I said: "I will tell the king stories. His Majesty
shall be amused."

"His Majesty," repeated Lys softly.

"Or hers," I laughed. "Who knows?"

"Who knows?" murmured Lys, with a gentle sigh.

"I know some stories about Jack the Giant-Killer," I announced. "Do
you, Lys?"

"I? No, not about a giant-killer, but I know all about the were-wolf,
and Jeanne-la-Flamme, and the Man in Purple Tatters, and--O dear me! I
know lots more."

"You are very wise," said I. "I shall teach his Majesty English."

"And I Breton," cried Lys jealously.

"I shall bring playthings to the king," said I--"big green lizards from
the gorse, little gray mullets to swim in glass globes, baby rabbits
from the forest of Kerselec----"

"And I," said Lys, "will bring the first primrose, the first branch of
aubepine, the first jonquil, to the king--my king."

"Our king," said I; and there was peace in Finistère.

I lay back, idly turning the leaves of the curious old volume.

"I am looking," said I, "for the crest."

"The crest, dear? It is a priest's head with an arrow-shaped mark on
the forehead, on a field----"

I sat up and stared at my wife.

"Dick, whatever is the matter?" she smiled. "The story is there in that
book. Do you care to read it? No? Shall I tell it to you? Well, then:
It happened in the third crusade. There was a monk whom men called the
Black Priest. He turned apostate, and sold himself to the enemies of
Christ. A Sieur de Trevec burst into the Saracen camp, at the head of
only one hundred lances, and carried the Black Priest away out of the
very midst of their army."

"So that is how you come by the crest," I said quietly; but I thought
of the branded skull in the gravel pit, and wondered.

"Yes," said Lys. "The Sieur de Trevec cut the Black Priest's head off,
but first he branded him with an arrow mark on the forehead. The book
says it was a pious action, and the Sieur de Trevec got great merit by
it. But I think it was cruel, the branding," she sighed.

"Did you ever hear of any other Black Priest?"

"Yes. There was one in the last century, here in St. Gildas. He cast a
white shadow in the sun. He wrote in the Breton language. Chronicles,
too, I believe. I never saw them. His name was the same as that of
the old chronicler, and of the other priest, Jacques Sorgue. Some said
he was a lineal descendant of the traitor. Of course the first Black
Priest was bad enough for anything. But if he did have a child, it need
not have been the ancestor of the last Jacques Sorgue. They say this
one was a holy man. They say he was so good he was not allowed to die,
but was caught up to heaven one day," added Lys, with believing eyes.

I smiled.

"But he disappeared," persisted Lys.

"I'm afraid his journey was in another direction," I said jestingly,
and thoughtlessly told her the story of the morning. I had utterly
forgotten the masked man at her window, but before I finished I
remembered him fast enough, and realized what I had done as I saw her
face whiten.

"Lys," I urged tenderly, "that was only some clumsy clown's trick. You
said so yourself. You are not superstitious, my dear?"

Her eyes were on mine. She slowly drew the little gold cross from her
bosom and kissed it. But her lips trembled as they pressed the symbol
of faith.


III.

About nine o'clock the next morning I walked into the Groix Inn and sat
down at the long discoloured oaken table, nodding good-day to Marianne
Bruyère, who in turn bobbed her white coiffe at me.

"My clever Bannalec maid," said I, "what is good for a stirrup-cup at
the Groix Inn?"

"Schist?" she inquired in Breton.

"With a dash of red wine, then," I replied.

She brought the delicious Quimperlé cider, and I poured a little
Bordeaux into it. Marianne watched me with laughing black eyes.

"What makes your cheeks so red, Marianne?" I asked. "Has Jean Marie
been here?"

"We are to be married, Monsieur Darrel," she laughed.

"Ah! Since when has Jean Marie Tregunc lost his head?"

"His head? Oh, Monsieur Darrel--his heart, you mean!"

"So I do," said I. "Jean Marie is a practical fellow."

"It is all due to your kindness----" began the girl, but I raised my
hand and held up the glass.

"It's due to himself. To your happiness, Marianne;" and I took a hearty
draught of the schist. "Now," said I, "tell me where I can find Le
Bihan and Max Fortin."

"Monsieur Le Bihan and Monsieur Fortin are above in the broad room. I
believe they are examining the Red Admiral's effects."

"To send them to Paris? Oh, I know. May I go up, Marianne?"

"And God go with you," smiled the girl.

When I knocked at the door of the broad room above little Max Fortin
opened it. Dust covered his spectacles and nose; his hat, with the tiny
velvet ribbons fluttering, was all awry.

"Come in, Monsieur Darrel," he said; "the mayor and I are packing up
the effects of the Purple Emperor and of the poor Red Admiral."

"The collections?" I asked, entering the room. "You must be very
careful in packing those butterfly cases; the slightest jar might break
wings and antennæ, you know."

Le Bihan shook hands with me and pointed to the great pile of boxes.

"They're all cork lined," he said, "but Fortin and I are putting felt
around each box. The Entomological Society of Paris pays the freight."

The combined collections of the Red Admiral and the Purple Emperor made
a magnificent display.

I lifted and inspected case after case set with gorgeous butterflies
and moths, each specimen carefully labelled with the name in Latin.
There were cases filled with crimson tiger moths all aflame with
colour; cases devoted to the common yellow butterflies; symphonies in
orange and pale yellow; cases of soft gray and dun-coloured sphinx
moths; and cases of garish nettle-bred butterflies of the numerous
family of _Vanessa_.

All alone in a great case by itself was pinned the purple emperor, the
Apatura Iris, that fatal specimen that had given the Purple Emperor his
name and quietus.

I remembered the butterfly, and stood looking at it with bent eyebrows.

Le Bihan glanced up from the floor where he was nailing down the lid of
a box full of cases.

"It is settled, then," said he, "that madame, your wife, gives the
Purple Emperor's entire collection to the city of Paris?"

I nodded.

"Without accepting anything for it?"

"It is a gift," I said.

"Including the purple emperor there in the case? That butterfly is
worth a great deal of money," persisted Le Bihan.

"You don't suppose that we would wish to sell that specimen, do you?"
I answered a trifle sharply.

"If I were you I should destroy it," said the mayor in his high-pitched
voice.

"That would be nonsense," said I--"like your burying the brass cylinder
and scroll yesterday."

"It was not nonsense," said Le Bihan doggedly, "and I should prefer not
to discuss the subject of the scroll."

I looked at Max Fortin, who immediately avoided my eyes.

"You are a pair of superstitious old women," said I, digging my hands
into my pockets; "you swallow every nursery tale that is invented."

"What of it?" said Le Bihan sulkily; "there's more truth than lies in
most of 'em."

"Oh!" I sneered, "does the Mayor of St. Gildas and St. Julien believe
in the Loup-garou?"

"No, not in the Loup-garou."

"In what, then--Jeanne-la-Flamme?"

"That," said Le Bihan with conviction, "is history."

"The devil it is!" said I; "and perhaps, monsieur the mayor, your faith
in giants is unimpaired?"

"There were giants--everybody knows it," growled Max Fortin.

"And you a chemist!" I observed scornfully.

"Listen, Monsieur Darrel," squeaked Le Bihan; "you know yourself that
the Purple Emperor was a scientific man. Now suppose I should tell
you that he always refused to include in his collection a Death's
Messenger?"

"A what?" I exclaimed.

"You know what I mean--that moth that flies by night; some call it the
Death's Head, but in St. Gildas we call it 'Death's Messenger.'"

"Oh!" said I, "you mean that big sphinx moth that is commonly known as
the 'death's-head moth.' Why the mischief should the people here call
it death's messenger?"

"For hundreds of years it has been known as death's messenger in
St. Gildas," said Max Fortin. "Even Froissart speaks of it in his
commentaries on Jacques Sorgue's Chronicles. The book is in your
library."

"Sorgue? And who was Jacques Sorgue? I never read his book."

"Jacques Sorgue was the son of some unfrocked priest--I forget. It was
during the crusades."

"Good Heavens!" I burst out, "I've been hearing of nothing but crusades
and priests and death and sorcery ever since I kicked that skull into
the gravel pit, and I am tired of it, I tell you frankly. One would
think we lived in the dark ages. Do you know what year of our Lord it
is, Le Bihan?"

"Eighteen hundred and ninety-six," replied the mayor.

"And yet you two hulking men are afraid of a death's-head moth."

"I don't care to have one fly into the window," said Max Fortin; "it
means evil to the house and the people in it."

"God alone knows why he marked one of his creatures with a yellow
death's head on the back," observed Le Bihan piously, "but I take it
that he meant it as a warning; and I propose to profit by it," he added
triumphantly.

"See here, Le Bihan," I said; "by a stretch of imagination one can make
out a skull on the thorax of a certain big sphinx moth. What of it?"

"It is a bad thing to touch," said the mayor, wagging his head.

"It squeaks when handled," added Max Fortin.

"Some creatures squeak all the time," I observed, looking hard at Le
Bihan.

"Pigs," added the mayor.

"Yes, and asses," I replied. "Listen, Le Bihan: do you mean to tell me
that you saw that skull roll uphill yesterday?"

The mayor shut his mouth tightly and picked up his hammer.

"Don't be obstinate," I said; "I asked you a question."

"And I refuse to answer," snapped Le Bihan. "Fortin saw what I saw; let
him talk about it."

I looked searchingly at the little chemist.

"I don't say that I saw it actually roll up out of the pit, all by
itself," said Fortin with a shiver, "but--but then, how did it come up
out of the pit, if it didn't roll up all by itself?"

"It didn't come up at all; that was a yellow cobblestone that you
mistook for the skull again," I replied. "You were nervous, Max."

"A--a very curious cobblestone, Monsieur Darrel," said Fortin.

"I also was a victim to the same hallucination," I continued, "and I
regret to say that I took the trouble to roll two innocent cobblestones
into the gravel pit, imagining each time that it was the skull I was
rolling."

"It was," observed Le Bihan with a morose shrug.

"It just shows," said I, ignoring the mayor's remark, "how easy it is
to fix up a train of coincidences so that the result seems to savour
of the supernatural. Now, last night my wife imagined that she saw a
priest in a mask peer in at her window----"

Fortin and Le Bihan scrambled hastily from their knees, dropping hammer
and nails.

"W-h-a-t--what's that?" demanded the mayor.

I repeated what I had said. Max Fortin turned livid.

"My God!" muttered Le Bihan, "the Black Priest is in St. Gildas!"

"D-don't you--you know the old prophecy?" stammered Fortin; "Froissart
quotes it from Jacques Sorgue:

  'When the Black Priest rises from the dead,
  St. Gildas folk shall shriek in bed;
  When the Black Priest rises from his grave,
  May the good God St. Gildas save!'"

"Aristide Le Bihan," I said angrily, "and you, Max Fortin, I've got
enough of this nonsense! Some foolish lout from Bannalec has been in
St. Gildas playing tricks to frighten old fools like you. If you have
nothing better to talk about than nursery legends I'll wait until you
come to your senses. Good-morning." And I walked out, more disturbed
than I cared to acknowledge to myself.

The day had become misty and overcast. Heavy, wet clouds hung in the
east. I heard the surf thundering against the cliffs, and the gray
gulls squealed as they tossed and turned high in the sky. The tide
was creeping across the river sands, higher, higher, and I saw the
seaweed floating on the beach, and the _lançons_ springing from the
foam, silvery thread-like flashes in the gloom. Curlew were flying up
the river in twos and threes; the timid sea swallows skimmed across the
moors toward some quiet, lonely pool, safe from the coming tempest. In
every hedge field birds were gathering, huddling together, twittering
restlessly.

When I reached the cliffs I sat down, resting my chin on my clenched
hands. Already a vast curtain of rain, sweeping across the ocean miles
away, hid the island of Groix. To the east, behind the white semaphore
on the hills, black clouds crowded up over the horizon. After a little
the thunder boomed, dull, distant, and slender skeins of lightning
unravelled across the crest of the coming storm. Under the cliff at my
feet the surf rushed foaming over the shore, and the _lançons_ jumped
and skipped and quivered until they seemed to be but the reflections of
the meshed lightning.

I turned to the east. It was raining over Groix, it was raining at
Sainte Barbe, it was raining now at the semaphore. High in the storm
whirl a few gulls pitched; a nearer cloud trailed veils of rain in its
wake; the sky was spattered with lightning; the thunder boomed.

As I rose to go, a cold raindrop fell upon the back of my hand, and
another, and yet another on my face. I gave a last glance at the sea,
where the waves were bursting into strange white shapes that seemed to
fling out menacing arms toward me. Then something moved on the cliff,
something black as the black rock it clutched--a filthy cormorant,
craning its hideous head at the sky.

Slowly I plodded homeward across the sombre moorland, where the
gorse stems glimmered with a dull metallic green, and the heather,
no longer violet and purple, hung drenched and dun-coloured among
the dreary rocks. The wet turf creaked under my heavy boots, the
black-thorn scraped and grated against knee and elbow. Over all lay
a strange light, pallid, ghastly, where the sea spray whirled across
the landscape and drove into my face until it grew numb with the cold.
In broad bands, rank after rank, billow on billow, the rain burst out
across the endless moors, and yet there was no wind to drive it at such
a pace.

Lys stood at the door as I turned into the garden, motioning me to
hasten; and then for the first time I became conscious that I was
soaked to the skin.

"How ever in the world did you come to stay out when such a storm
threatened?" she said. "Oh, you are dripping! Go quickly and change; I
have laid your warm underwear on the bed, Dick."

I kissed my wife, and went upstairs to change my dripping clothes for
something more comfortable.

When I returned to the morning room there was a driftwood fire on the
hearth, and Lys sat in the chimney corner embroidering.

"Catherine tells me that the fishing fleet from Lorient is out. Do you
think they are in danger, dear?" asked Lys, raising her blue eyes to
mine as I entered.

"There is no wind, and there will be no sea," said I, looking out of
the window. Far across the moor I could see the black cliffs looming in
the mist.

"How it rains!" murmured Lys; "come to the fire, Dick."

I threw myself on the fur rug, my hands in my pockets, my head on Lys's
knees.

"Tell me a story," I said. "I feel like a boy of ten."

Lys raised a finger to her scarlet lips. I always waited for her to do
that.

"Will you be very still, then?" she said.

"Still as death."

"Death," echoed a voice, very softly.

"Did you speak, Lys?" I asked, turning so that I could see her face.

"No; did you, Dick?"

"Who said 'death'?" I asked, startled.

"Death," echoed a voice, softly.

I sprang up and looked about. Lys rose too, her needles and embroidery
falling to the floor. She seemed about to faint, leaning heavily on me,
and I led her to the window and opened it a little way to give her air.
As I did so the chain lightning split the zenith, the thunder crashed,
and a sheet of rain swept into the room, driving with it something that
fluttered--something that flapped, and squeaked, and beat upon the rug
with soft, moist wings.

We bent over it together, Lys clinging to me, and we saw that it was a
death's-head moth drenched with rain.

The dark day passed slowly as we sat beside the fire, hand in hand,
her head against my breast, speaking of sorrow and mystery and death.
For Lys believed that there were things on earth that none might
understand, things that must be nameless forever and ever, until God
rolls up the scroll of life and all is ended. We spoke of hope and fear
and faith, and the mystery of the saints; we spoke of the beginning and
the end, of the shadow of sin, of omens, and of love. The moth still
lay on the floor, quivering its sombre wings in the warmth of the fire,
the skull and ribs clearly etched upon its neck and body.

"If it is a messenger of death to this house," I said, "why should we
fear, Lys?"

"Death should be welcome to those who love God," murmured Lys, and she
drew the cross from her breast and kissed it.

"The moth might die if I threw it out into the storm," I said after a
silence.

"Let it remain," sighed Lys.

Late that night my wife lay sleeping, and I sat beside her bed and read
in the Chronicle of Jacques Sorgue. I shaded the candle, but Lys grew
restless, and finally I took the book down into the morning room, where
the ashes of the fire rustled and whitened on the hearth.

The death's-head moth lay on the rug before the fire where I had left
it. At first I thought it was dead, but, when I looked closer I saw
a lambent fire in its amber eyes. The straight white shadow it cast
across the floor wavered as the candle flickered.

The pages of the Chronicle of Jacques Sorgue were damp and sticky; the
illuminated gold and blue initials left flakes of azure and gilt where
my hand brushed them.

"It is not paper at all; it is thin parchment," I said to myself;
and I held the discoloured page close to the candle flame and read,
translating laboriously:

"I, Jacques Sorgue, saw all these things. And I saw the Black Mass
celebrated in the chapel of St. Gildas-on-the-Cliff. And it was said by
the Abbé Sorgue, my kinsman: for which deadly sin the apostate priest
was seized by the most noble Marquis of Plougastel and by him condemned
to be burned with hot irons, until his seared soul quit its body and
fly to its master the devil. But when the Black Priest lay in the crypt
of Plougastel, his master Satan came at night and set him free, and
carried him across land and sea to Mahmoud, which is Soldan or Saladin.
And I, Jacques Sorgue, travelling afterward by sea, beheld with my own
eyes my kinsman, the Black Priest of St. Gildas, borne along in the
air upon a vast black wing, which was the wing of his master Satan. And
this was seen also by two men of the crew."

I turned the page. The wings of the moth on the floor began to quiver.
I read on and on, my eyes blurring under the shifting candle flame.
I read of battles and of saints, and I learned how the great Soldan
made his pact with Satan, and then I came to the Sieur de Trevec, and
read how he seized the Black Priest in the midst of Saladin's tents
and carried him away and cut off his head, first branding him on the
forehead. "And before he suffered," said the Chronicle, "he cursed the
Sieur de Trevec and his descendants, and he said he would surely return
to St. Gildas. 'For the violence you do to me, I will do violence to
you. For the evil I suffer at your hands, I will work evil on you and
your descendants. Woe to your children, Sieur de Trevec!'" There was
a whirr, a beating of strong wings, and my candle flashed up as in a
sudden breeze. A humming filled the room; the great moth darted hither
and thither, beating, buzzing, on ceiling and wall. I flung down my
book and stepped forward. Now it lay fluttering upon the window sill,
and for a moment I had it under my hand, but the thing squeaked and
I shrank back. Then suddenly it darted across the candle flame; the
light flared and went out, and at the same moment a shadow moved in
the darkness outside. I raised my eyes to the window. A masked face was
peering in at me.

Quick as thought I whipped out my revolver and fired every cartridge,
but the face advanced beyond the window, the glass melting away before
it like mist, and through the smoke of my revolver I saw something
creep swiftly into the room. Then I tried to cry out, but the thing was
at my throat, and I fell backward among the ashes of the hearth.

       *       *       *       *       *

When my eyes unclosed I was lying on the hearth, my head among the cold
ashes. Slowly I got on my knees, rose painfully, and groped my way
to a chair. On the floor lay my revolver, shining in the pale light
of early morning. My mind clearing by degrees, I looked, shuddering,
at the window. The glass was unbroken. I stooped stiffly, picked up
my revolver and opened the cylinder. Every cartridge had been fired.
Mechanically I closed the cylinder and placed the revolver in my
pocket. The book, the Chronicles of Jacques Sorgue, lay on the table
beside me, and as I started to close it I glanced at the page. It was
all splashed with rain, and the lettering had run, so that the page was
merely a confused blur of gold and red and black. As I stumbled toward
the door I cast a fearful glance over my shoulder. The death's-head
moth crawled shivering on the rug.


IV.

The sun was about three hours high. I must have slept, for I was
aroused by the sudden gallop of horses under our window. People were
shouting and calling in the road. I sprang up and opened the sash.
Le Bihan was there, an image of helplessness, and Max Fortin stood
beside him, polishing his glasses. Some gendarmes had just arrived
from Quimperlé, and I could hear them around the corner of the house,
stamping, and rattling their sabres and carbines, as they led their
horses into my stable.

Lys sat up, murmuring half-sleepy, half-anxious questions.

"I don't know," I answered. "I am going out to see what it means."

"It is like the day they came to arrest you," Lys said, giving me a
troubled look. But I kissed her, and laughed at her until she smiled
too. Then I flung on coat and cap and hurried down the stairs.

The first person I saw standing in the road was the Brigadier Durand.

"Hello!" said I, "have you come to arrest me again? What the devil is
all this fuss about, anyway?"

"We were telegraphed for an hour ago," said Durand briskly, "and for a
sufficient reason, I think. Look there, Monsieur Darrel!"

He pointed to the ground almost under my feet.

"Good heavens!" I cried, "where did that puddle of blood come from?"

"That's what I want to know, Monsieur Darrel. Max Fortin found it at
daybreak. See, it's splashed all over the grass, too. A trail of it
leads into your garden, across the flower beds to your very window, the
one that opens from the morning room. There is another trail leading
from this spot across the road to the cliffs, then to the gravel pit,
and thence across the moor to the forest of Kerselec. We are going to
mount in a minute and search the bosquets. Will you join us? Bon Dieu!
but the fellow bled like an ox. Max Fortin says it's human blood, or I
should not have believed it."

The little chemist of Quimperlé came up at that moment, rubbing his
glasses with a coloured handkerchief.

"Yes, it is human blood," he said, "but one thing puzzles me: the
corpuscles are yellow. I never saw any human blood before with yellow
corpuscles. But your English Doctor Thompson asserts that he has----"

"Well, it's human blood, anyway--isn't it?" insisted Durand,
impatiently.

"Ye-es," admitted Max Fortin.

"Then it's my business to trail it," said the big gendarme, and he
called his men and gave the order to mount.

"Did you hear anything last night?" asked Durand of me.

"I heard the rain. I wonder the rain did not wash away these traces."

"They must have come after the rain ceased. See this thick splash, how
it lies over and weighs down the wet grass blades. Pah!"

It was a heavy, evil-looking clot, and I stepped back from it, my
throat closing in disgust.

"My theory," said the brigadier, "is this: Some of those Biribi
fishermen, probably the Icelanders, got an extra glass of cognac into
their hides and quarrelled on the road. Some of them were slashed, and
staggered to your house. But there is only one trail, and yet--and yet,
how could all that blood come from only one person? Well, the wounded
man, let us say, staggered first to your house and then back here, and
he wandered off, drunk and dying, God knows where. That's my theory."

"A very good one," said I calmly. "And you are going to trail him?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"At once. Will you come?"

"Not now. I'll gallop over by-and-bye. You are going to the edge of the
Kerselec forest?"

"Yes; you will hear us calling. Are you coming, Max Fortin? And you, Le
Bihan? Good; take the dog-cart."

The big gendarme tramped around the corner to the stable and presently
returned mounted on a strong gray horse; his sabre shone on his saddle;
his pale yellow and white facings were spotless. The little crowd of
white-coiffed women with their children fell back, as Durand touched
spurs and clattered away followed by his two troopers. Soon after Le
Bihan and Max Fortin also departed in the mayor's dingy dog-cart.

"Are you coming?" piped Le Bihan shrilly.

"In a quarter of an hour," I replied, and went back to the house.

When I opened the door of the morning room the death's-head moth was
beating its strong wings against the window. For a second I hesitated,
then walked over and opened the sash. The creature fluttered out,
whirred over the flower beds a moment, then darted across the moorland
toward the sea. I called the servants together and questioned them.
Josephine, Catherine, Jean Marie Tregunc, not one of them had heard
the slightest disturbance during the night. Then I told Jean Marie to
saddle my horse, and while I was speaking Lys came down.

"Dearest," I began, going to her.

"You must tell me everything you know, Dick," she interrupted, looking
me earnestly in the face.

"But there is nothing to tell--only a drunken brawl, and some one
wounded."

"And you are going to ride--where, Dick?"

"Well, over to the edge of Kerselec forest. Durand and the mayor, and
Max Fortin, have gone on, following a--a trail."

"What trail?"

"Some blood."

"Where did they find it?"

"Out in the road there." Lys crossed herself.

"Does it come near our house?"

"Yes."

"How near?"

"It comes up to the morning-room window," said I, giving in.

Her hand on my arm grew heavy. "I dreamed last night----"

"So did I----" but I thought of the empty cartridges in my revolver,
and stopped.

"I dreamed that you were in great danger, and I could not move hand or
foot to save you; but you had your revolver, and I called out to you to
fire----"

"I did fire!" I cried excitedly.

"You--you fired?"

I took her in my arms. "My darling," I said, "something strange has
happened--something that I can not understand as yet. But, of course,
there is an explanation. Last night I thought I fired at the Black
Priest."

"Ah!" gasped Lys.

"Is that what you dreamed?"

"Yes, yes, that was it! I begged you to fire----"

"And I did."

Her heart was beating against my breast. I held her close in silence.

"Dick," she said at length, "perhaps you killed the--the thing."

"If it was human I did not miss," I answered grimly. "And it was
human," I went on, pulling myself together, ashamed of having so nearly
gone to pieces. "Of course it was human! The whole affair is plain
enough. Not a drunken brawl, as Durand thinks; it was a drunken lout's
practical joke, for which he has suffered. I suppose I must have filled
him pretty full of bullets, and he has crawled away to die in Kerselec
forest. It's a terrible affair; I'm sorry I fired so hastily; but that
idiot Le Bihan and Max Fortin have been working on my nerves till I am
as hysterical as a schoolgirl," I ended angrily.

"You fired--but the window glass was not shattered," said Lys in a low
voice.

"Well, the window was open, then. And as for the--the rest--I've got
nervous indigestion, and a doctor will settle the Black Priest for me,
Lys."

I glanced out of the window at Tregunc waiting with my horse at the
gate.

"Dearest, I think I had better go to join Durand and the others."

"I will go too."

"Oh, no!"

"Yes, Dick."

"Don't, Lys."

"I shall suffer every moment you are away."

"The ride is too fatiguing, and we can't tell what unpleasant sight
you may come upon. Lys, you don't really think there is anything
supernatural in this affair?"

"Dick," she answered gently, "I am a Bretonne." With both arms around
my neck, my wife said, "Death is the gift of God. I do not fear it when
we are together. But alone--oh, my husband, I should fear a God who
could take you away from me!"

We kissed each other soberly, simply, like two children. Then Lys
hurried away to change her gown, and I paced up and down the garden
waiting for her.

She came, drawing on her slender gauntlets. I swung her into the
saddle, gave a hasty order to Jean Marie, and mounted.

Now, to quail under thoughts of terror on a morning like this, with Lys
in the saddle beside me, no matter what had happened or might happen,
was impossible. Moreover, Môme came sneaking after us. I asked Tregunc
to catch him, for I was afraid he might be brained by our horses' hoofs
if he followed, but the wily puppy dodged and bolted after Lys, who
was trotting along the high-road. "Never mind," I thought; "if he's hit
he'll live, for he has no brains to lose."

Lys was waiting for me in the road beside the Shrine of Our Lady of St.
Gildas when I joined her. She crossed herself, I doffed my cap, then we
shook out our bridles and galloped toward the forest of Kerselec.

We said very little as we rode. I always loved to watch Lys in the
saddle. Her exquisite figure and lovely face were the incarnation of
youth and grace; her curling hair glistened like threaded gold.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw the spoiled puppy Môme come bounding
cheerfully alongside, oblivious of our horses' heels. Our road swung
close to the cliffs. A filthy cormorant rose from the black rocks and
flapped heavily across our path. Lys's horse reared, but she pulled him
down, and pointed at the bird with her riding crop.

"I see," said I; "it seems to be going our way. Curious to see a
cormorant in a forest, isn't it?"

"It is a bad sign," said Lys. "You know the Morbihan proverb: 'When
the cormorant turns from the sea, Death laughs in the forest, and wise
woodsmen build boats.'"

"I wish," said I sincerely, "that there were fewer proverbs in
Brittany."

We were in sight of the forest now; across the gorse I could see
the sparkle of gendarmes' trappings, and the glitter of Le Bihan's
silver-buttoned jacket. The hedge was low and we took it without
difficulty, and trotted across the moor to where Le Bihan and Durand
stood gesticulating.

They bowed ceremoniously to Lys as we rode up.

"The trail is horrible--it is a river," said the mayor in his squeaky
voice. "Monsieur Darrel, I think perhaps madame would scarcely care to
come any nearer."

Lys drew bridle and looked at me.

"It is horrible!" said Durand, walking up beside me; "it looks as
though a bleeding regiment had passed this way. The trail winds and
winds about there in the thickets; we lose it at times, but we always
find it again. I can't understand how one man--no, nor twenty--could
bleed like that!"

A halloo, answered by another, sounded from the depths of the forest.

"It's my men; they are following the trail," muttered the brigadier.
"God alone knows what is at the end!"

"Shall we gallop back, Lys?" I asked.

"No; let us ride along the western edge of the woods and dismount. The
sun is so hot now, and I should like to rest for a moment," she said.

"The western forest is clear of anything disagreeable," said Durand.

"Very well," I answered; "call me, Le Bihan, if you find anything."

Lys wheeled her mare, and I followed across the springy heather, Môme
trotting cheerfully in the rear.

We entered the sunny woods about a quarter of a kilometre from where
we left Durand. I took Lys from her horse, flung both bridles over a
limb, and, giving my wife my arm, aided her to a flat mossy rock which
overhung a shallow brook gurgling among the beech trees. Lys sat down
and drew off her gauntlets. Môme pushed his head into her lap, received
an undeserved caress, and came doubtfully toward me. I was weak enough
to condone his offence, but I made him lie down at my feet, greatly to
his disgust.

I rested my head on Lys's knees, looking up at the sky through the
crossed branches of the trees.

"I suppose I have killed him," I said. "It shocks me terribly, Lys."

"You could not have known, dear. He may have been a robber,
and--if--not---- Did--have you ever fired your revolver since that day
four years ago, when the Red Admiral's son tried to kill you? But I
know you have not."

"No," said I, wondering. "It's a fact, I have not. Why?"

"And don't you remember that I asked you to let me load it for you the
day when Yves went off, swearing to kill you and his father?"

"Yes, I do remember. Well?"

"Well, I--I took the cartridges first to St. Gildas chapel and dipped
them in holy water. You must not laugh, Dick," said Lys gently, laying
her cool hands on my lips.

"Laugh, my darling!"

Overhead the October sky was pale amethyst, and the sunlight burned
like orange flame through the yellow leaves of beech and oak. Gnats
and midges danced and wavered overhead; a spider dropped from a twig
halfway to the ground and hung suspended on the end of his gossamer
thread.

"Are you sleepy, dear?" asked Lys, bending over me.

"I am--a little; I scarcely slept two hours last night," I answered.

"You may sleep, if you wish," said Lys, and touched my eyes caressingly.

"Is my head heavy on your knees?"

"No, Dick."

I was already in a half doze; still I heard the brook babbling under
the beeches and the humming of forest flies overhead. Presently even
these were stilled.

The next thing I knew I was sitting bolt upright, my ears ringing with
a scream, and I saw Lys cowering beside me, covering her white face
with both hands.

As I sprang to my feet she cried again and clung to my knees. I saw my
dog rush growling into a thicket, then I heard him whimper, and he came
backing out, whining, ears flat, tail down. I stooped and disengaged
Lys's hand.

"Don't go, Dick!" she cried. "O God, it's the Black Priest!"

In a moment I had leaped across the brook and pushed my way into the
thicket. It was empty. I stared about me; I scanned every tree trunk,
every bush. Suddenly I saw him. He was seated on a fallen log, his head
resting in his hands, his rusty black robe gathered around him. For
a moment my hair stirred under my cap; sweat started on forehead and
cheek-bone; then I recovered my reason, and understood that the man was
human and was probably wounded to death. Ay, to death; for there, at my
feet, lay the wet trail of blood, over leaves and stones, down into the
little hollow, across to the figure in black resting silently under the
trees.

I saw that he could not escape even if he had the strength, for before
him, almost at his very feet, lay a deep, shining swamp.

As I stepped forward my foot broke a twig. At the sound the figure
started a little, then its head fell forward again. Its face was
masked. Walking up to the man, I bade him tell where he was wounded.
Durand and the others broke through the thicket at the same moment and
hurried to my side.

"Who are you who hide a masked face in a priest's robe?" said the
gendarme loudly.

There was no answer.

"See--see the stiff blood all over his robe!" muttered Le Bihan to
Fortin.

"He will not speak," said I.

"He may be too badly wounded," whispered Le Bihan.

"I saw him raise his head," I said; "my wife saw him creep up here."

Durand stepped forward and touched the figure.

"Speak!" he said.

"Speak!" quavered Fortin.

Durand waited a moment, then with a sudden upward movement he stripped
off the mask and threw back the man's head. We were looking into the
eye sockets of a skull. Durand stood rigid; the mayor shrieked. The
skeleton burst out from its rotting robes and collapsed on the ground
before us. From between the staring ribs and the grinning teeth spurted
a torrent of black blood, showering the shrinking grasses; then the
thing shuddered, and fell over into the black ooze of the bog. Little
bubbles of iridescent air appeared from the mud; the bones were slowly
engulfed, and, as the last fragments sank out of sight, up from the
depths and along the bank crept a creature, shiny, shivering, quivering
its wings.

It was a death's-head moth.

       *       *       *       *       *

I wish I had time to tell you how Lys outgrew superstitions--for she
never knew the truth about the affair, and she never will know, since
she has promised not to read this book. I wish I might tell you about
the king and his coronation, and how the coronation robe fitted. I wish
that I were able to write how Yvonne and Herbert Stuart rode to a boar
hunt in Quimperlé, and how the hounds raced the quarry right through
the town, overturning three gendarmes, the notary, and an old woman.
But I am becoming garrulous, and Lys is calling me to come and hear the
king say that he is sleepy. And his Highness shall not be kept waiting.

       *       *       *       *       *

  THE KING'S CRADLE SONG.

      Seal with a seal of gold
      The scroll of a life unrolled;
    Swathe him deep in his purple stole;
    Ashes of diamonds, crystalled coal,
      Drops of gold in each scented fold.

    Crimson wings of the Little Death,
    Stir his hair with your silken breath;
    Flaming wings of sins to be,
    Splendid pinions of prophecy,
      Smother his eyes with hues and dyes,
  While the white moon spins and the winds arise,
      And the stars drip through the skies.

      Wave, O wings of the Little Death!
      Seal his sight and stifle his breath,
    Cover his breast with the gemmed shroud pressed;
    From north to north, from west to west,
      Wave, O wings of the Little Death!
  Till the white moon reels in the cracking skies,
      And the ghosts of God arise.




THE WHITE SHADOW.


  We are no other than a moving row
  Of magic shadow-shapes, that come and go
    Round with this sun-illumined lantern, held
  In midnight by the master of the show.

  A moment's halt--a momentary taste
  Of being from the well amid the waste--
    And lo! the phantom caravan has reached
  The nothing it set out from. Oh, make haste!

  Ah, Love! could you and I with him conspire
  To grasp this sorry scheme of things entire,
    Would not we shatter it to bits--and then
  Remould it nearer to the heart's desire!

                                        FITZGERALD.




THE WHITE SHADOW.

  Listen, then, love, and with your white hand clear
  Your forehead from its cloudy hair.


I.

"Three great hulking cousins," said she, closing her gray eyes
disdainfully.

We accepted the rebuke in astonished silence. Presently she opened her
eyes, and seemed surprised to see us there yet.

"O," she said, "if you think I am going to stay here until you make up
your minds----"

"I've made up mine," said Donald. "We will go to the links. You may
come."

"I shall not," she announced. "Walter, what do you propose?"

Walter looked at his cartridge belt and then at the little
breech-loader standing in a corner of the arbour.

"Oh, I know," she said, "but I won't! I won't! I won't!"

The uncles and aunts on the piazza turned to look at us; her mother
arose from a steamer-chair and came across the lawn.

"Won't what, Sweetheart?" she asked, placing both hands on her
daughter's shoulders.

"Mamma, Walter wants me to shoot, and Don wants me to play golf, and
I--won't!"

"She doesn't know what she wants," said I.

"Don't I?" she said, flushing with displeasure.

"Her mother might suggest something," hazarded Donald. We looked at our
aunt.

"Sweetheart is spoiled," said that lady decisively. "If you children
don't go away at once and have a good time, I shall find employment for
her."

"Algebra?" I asked maliciously.

"How dare you!" cried Sweetheart, sitting up. "Oh, isn't he mean! isn't
he ignoble!--and I've done my algebra; haven't I, mamma?"

"But your French?" I began.

Donald laughed, and so did Walter. As for Sweetheart, she arose in all
the dignity of sixteen years, closed her eyes with superb insolence,
and, clasping her mother's waist with one round white arm, marched out
of the arbour.

"We tease her too much," said Donald.

"She's growing up fast; we ought not to call her 'Sweetheart' when she
puts her hair up," added Walter.

"She's going to put it up in October, when she goes back to school,"
said Donald. "Jack, she will hate you if you keep reminding her of her
algebra and French."

"Then I'll stop," said I, suddenly conscious what an awful thing it
would be if she hated me.

Donald's two pointers came frisking across the lawn from the kennels,
and Donald picked up his gun.

"Here we go again," said I. "Donny's going to the coverts after grouse,
Walter's going up on the hill with his dust-shot and arsenic, and I'm
going across the fields after butterflies. Why the deuce can't we all
go together, just for once?"

"And take Sweetheart? She would like it if we all went together," said
Walter; "she is tired of seeing Jack net butterflies."

"Collecting birds and shooting grouse are two different things," began
Donald. "You spoil my dogs by shooting your confounded owls and humming
birds."

"Oh, your precious dogs!" I cried. "Shut up, Donny, and give Sweetheart
a good day's tramp. It's a pity if three cousins can't pool their
pleasures for once."

Donald nodded uncertainly.

"Come on," said Walter, "we'll find Sweetheart. Jack, you get your
butterfly togs and come back here."

I nodded, and watched my two cousins sauntering across the lawn--big,
clean-cut fellows, resembling each other enough to be brothers instead
of cousins.

We all resembled each other more or less, Donald, Walter, and I. As for
Sweetheart, she looked like none of us.

It was all very well for her mother to call her Sweetheart, and for
her aunts to echo it in chorus, but the time was coming when we saw we
should have to stop. A girl of sixteen with such a name is ridiculous,
and Sweetheart was nearly seventeen; and her hair was "going up" and
her gowns were "coming down" in October.

Her own name was pretty enough. I don't know that I ought to tell it,
but I will: it was the same as her mother's. We called her Sweetheart
sometimes, sometimes "The Aspen Beauty." Donald had given her that name
from a butterfly in my collection, the Vanessa Pandora, commonly known
as the Aspen beauty, from its never having been captured in America
except in our village of Aspen.

Here, in the north of New York State, we four cousins spent our summers
in the family house. There was not much to do in Aspen. We used the
links, we galloped over the sandy roads, we also trotted our several
hobbies, Donald, Walter, and I. Sweetheart had no hobby; to make up for
this, however, she owned a magnificent team of bêtes-noires--Algebra
and French.

As for me, my butterfly collection languished. I had specimens of
nearly every butterfly in New York State, and I rather longed for new
states to conquer. Anyway, there were plenty of Aspen beauties--I mean
the butterflies--flying about the roads and balm-of-Gilead trees, and
perhaps that is why I lingered there long enough to collect hundreds of
duplicates for exchange. And perhaps it wasn't.

I thought of these things as I sat in the sun-flecked arbour, watching
the yellow elm leaves flutter down from the branches. I thought, too,
of Sweetheart, and wondered how she would look with her hair up. And
while I sat there smoking, watching the yellow leaves drifting across
the lawn, a sharp explosion startled me and I raised my head.

Sweetheart was standing on the lawn, gazing dreamily at the smoking
débris of a large firecracker.

"What's that for?" I asked.

"It proclaims my independence," said Sweetheart--"my independence
forever. Hereafter my cousins will ask to accompany me on my walks;
they need no longer charitably permit me to accompany them. Are you
three boys going to ride your hobbies?"

"We are," I said.

"Then good-bye. I am going to walk."

"Can't we come too?" I asked, laughing.

"Oh," she said graciously, "if you put it in that way I could not
refuse."

"May we bring our guns?" asked Donald from the piazza.

"May I bring my net?" I added, half amused, half annoyed.

She made a gesture, indifferent, condescending.

"Dear me!" murmured the aunts in chorus from the piazza as we trooped
after the Aspen beauty, "Sweetheart is growing very fast."

I smiled vaguely at Sweetheart. I was wondering how she would look in
long frocks and coiled hair.


II.

In the fall of the year the meadows of Aspen glimmer in the sunlight
like crumpled sheets of beaten gold; for Aspen is the land of
golden-rod, of yellow earth and gilded fern.

There the crisp oaks rustle, every leaf a blot of yellow; there the
burnished pines sound, sound, tremble, and resound, like gilt-stringed
harps aquiver in the wind.

Sweet fern, sun-dried, bronzed, fills all the hills with incense, vague
and delicate as the white down drifting from the frothy milkweed.

And where the meadow brook prattled, limpid, filtered with sunlight,
Sweetheart stood knee-deep in fragrant mint, watching the aimless
minnows swimming in circles. On a distant hill, dark against the blue,
Donald moved with his dogs, and I saw the sun-glint on his gun, and I
heard the distant "Hi--on! Hi--on!" long after he disappeared below the
brown hill's brow.

Walter, too, had gone, leaving us there by the brook together,
Sweetheart and I; and I saw the crows flapping and circling far over
the woods, and I heard the soft report of his dust-shot shells among
the trees.

"The ruling passion, Sweetheart," I said. "Donny chases the phantom of
pleasure with his dogs. The phantom flies from Walter, and he follows
with his dust-shot."

"Then," said Sweetheart, "follow your phantom also; there are
butterflies everywhere." She raised both arms and turned from the
brook. "Everywhere flying I see butterflies--phantoms of pleasure; and,
Jack, you do not follow with your net."

"No," said I, "the world to-day is too fair to--slay in. I even doubt
that the happiness of empires hinges on the discovery of a new species
of anything. Do I bore you?"

"A little," said Sweetheart, touching the powdered gold of the blossoms
about her. She laid the tip of her third finger on her lips and then
on the golden-rod. "I shall not pick it; the world is too fair to-day,"
she said. "What are you going to do, Jack?"

"I could doze," I said. "Could you?"

"Yes--if you told me stories."

I contemplated her in silence for a moment. After a while she sat down
under an oak and clasped her hands.

"I am growing so old," she sighed, "I no longer take pleasure
in childish things--Donald's dogs, Walter's humming birds, your
butterflies. Jack?"

"What?"

"Sit down on the grass."

"What for?"

"Because I ask you."

I sat down.

Presently she said: "I am as tall as mamma. Why should I study algebra?"

"Because," I answered evasively.

"Your answer is as rude as though I were twenty, instead of sixteen,"
said Sweetheart. "If you treat me as a child from this moment, I shall
hate you."

"Me--Sweetheart?"

"And that name!--it is good for children and kittens."

I looked at her seriously. "It is good for women, too--when it is
time," I said. "I prophesy that one day you will hear it again. As for
me, I shall not call you by that name if you dislike it."

"I am a woman--now," she said.

"Oh! at sixteen."

"To-morrow I am to be seventeen."

Presently, looking off at the blue hills, I said: "For a long time
I have recognised that that subtle, indefinable attitude--we call
it deference--due from men to women is due from us to you. Donny and
Walter are slower to accept this. You know what you have been to us
as a child; we can't bear to lose you--to meet you in another way--to
reckon with you as we reckon with a woman. But it is true: our little
Sweetheart has vanished, and--_you_ are here!"

The oak leaves began to rustle in the hill winds; the crows cawed from
the woods.

"Oui c'est moi," she said at length.

"I shall never call you Sweetheart again," I said, smiling.

"Who knows?" she laughed, and leaned over to pick a blade of wild
wheat. She coloured faintly a moment later, and said: "I didn't mean
that, Jack."

And so Sweetheart took her first step across that threshold of mystery,
the Temple of Idols. And of the gilded idols within the temple, one
shall turn to living flesh at the sound of a voice. And lo! where
a child had entered, a woman returned with the key to the Temple of
Gilded Idols.

"Jack," said Sweetheart, "you are wrong. No day is too fair to kill in.
I shall pick my arms full--full of flowers."

Over the yellow fields, red with the stalks of the buckwheat, crowned
with a glimmering cloud of the dusty gold of the golden-rod, Sweetheart
passed, pensive, sedate, awed by the burden of sixteen years.

I followed.

Over the curling fern and wind-stirred grasses the silken milkweed
seeds sailed, sailed, and the great red-brown butterflies drifted
above, ruddy as autumn leaves aglow in the sun.

"On the sand-cliff there are marigolds," said Sweetheart.

I looked at the mass of wild flowers in her arms; her white polished
skin reflected the blaze of colour, warming like ivory under their
glow.

"Marigolds," I repeated; "we will get some."

"The sand slides on the face of the cliff; you must be careful," she
said.

"And I may see one of those rare cliff butterflies. I haven't any good
examples."

I fancy she was not listening; the crows were clamouring above the
beech woods; the hill winds filled our ears with a sound like the sound
of the sea on shoals. Her gray eyes, touched with the sky's deep blue
and the blue of the misty hills, looked out across the miles of woods
and fields, and saw a world; not a world old, scarred, rock-ribbed, and
salt with tears, but a new world, youthful, ripe, sunny, hazy with the
splendour of wonders hidden behind the horizon--a world jewelled with
gems, spanned by rose-mist rainbows--a world of sixteen years.

"We are already at the cliff's edge," I said.

She stepped to the edge and looked over. I drew her back. The sand
started among the rocks, running, running with a sound like silver
water.

"Then you shall not go either," she said. "I do not care for marigolds."

But I was already on the edge, stooping for a blossom. The next instant
I fell.

There was a whistle of sand, a flurry and a rush of wind, a blur of
rock, fern, dead grasses--a cry!

For I remember as I fell, falling I called, "Sweetheart!" and again
"Sweetheart!" Then my body struck the rocks below.


III.

Of all the seconds that tick the whole year through, of all the seconds
that have slipped onward marking the beat of time since time was
loosed, there is one, one brief moment, steeped in magic and heavy with
oblivion, that sometimes lingers in the soul of man, annihilating space
and time. If, at the feet of God, a year is a second passed unnoted,
this magic second, afloat on the tide of time, moves on and on till,
caught in the vortex of some life's whirl, it sinks into the soul of a
being near to death.

And in that soul the magic second glows and lingers, stretching into
minutes, hours, days--aye, days and days, till, if the magic hold, the
calm years crowd on one by one; and yet it all is but a second--that
magic moment that comes on the tide of time--that came to me and was
caught up in my life's whirl as I fell, dropping there between sky and
earth.

And so that magic moment grew to minutes, to hours; and when my body,
whirling, pitching, struck and lay flung out on the earth, the magic
second grew until the crystal days fell from my life, as beads, one by
one, fall from the rosaries that saints tell kneeling.

Those days of a life that I have lived, those years that linger still
aglow in the sun behind me, dim yet splendid as dust-dimmed jewels,
they also have ended, not in vague night, but in the sunburst of
another second--such a second as ticks from my watch as I write, quick,
sharp, joyous, irrevocable! So, of that magic second, or day, or year,
I shall tell--I, as I was, standing beside my body flung there across
the earth.

I looked at my body, lying in a heap, then turned to the sand cliff
smiling.

"Sweetheart!" I called.

But she was already at my side.

We walked on through fragrant pastures, watching the long shadows
stretch from field to field, speaking of what had been and of all that
was to be. It was so simple--everything was clear before us. Had there
been doubts, fears, sudden alarms, startled heartbeats?

If there had been, now they were ended forever.

"Not forever," said Sweetheart; "who knows how long the magic second
may last?"

"But we--what difference can that make?" I asked.

"To us?"

"Yes."

"None," said Sweetheart decisively.

We looked out into the west. The sun turned to a mound of cinders; the
hills loomed in opalescent steam.

"But--but--your shadow!" said Sweetheart.

I bent my head, thrilled with happiness.

"And yours," I whispered.

The shadows we cast were whiter than snow.

I still heard the hill winds, soft in my ears as breaking surf; a
bird-note came from the dusky woodland; a star broke out overhead.

"What is your pleasure, Sweetheart, now all is said?" I asked.

"The world is all so fair," she sighed; "is it fairer beyond the hills,
Jack?"

"It is fair where you pass by, north, south, and from west to west
again. In France the poplars are as yellow as our oaks. In Morbihan the
gorse gilds all the hills, yellow as golden-rod. Shall we go?"

"But in the spring--let us wait until spring."

"Where?"

"Here."

"Until spring?"

"It is written that Time shall pass as a shadow across the sea. What
is that book there under your feet--that iron-bound book, half embedded
like a stone in the grass."

"I did not see it!"

"Bring it to me."

I raised the book; it left a bare mark in the sod as a stone that is
turned. Then, holding it on my knees, I opened it, and Sweetheart,
leaning on my shoulder, read. The tall stars flared like candles,
flooding the page with diamond light; the earth, perfumed with
blossoms, stirred with the vague vibration of countless sounds, tiny
voices swaying breathless in the hidden surge of an endless harmony.

"The white shadow is the shadow of the soul," she read. Even the winds
were hushed as her sweet lips moved.

"And what shall make thee to understand what hell is?... When the
sun shall be folded up as a garment that is laid away; when the stars
fall, and the seas boil, and when souls shall be joined again to their
bodies; and when the girl who hath been buried alive shall be asked
for what crime; when books shall be laid open, when hell shall burn
fiercely, and when paradise shall be brought very near:

"Every soul shall know what it hath wrought!"

I closed my eyes; the splendour of the starlight on the page was more
than my eyes could bear.

But she read on; for what can dim her eyes?

"O man, verily, labouring, thou labourest to meet thy LORD.

"And thou shalt meet HIM!

"When the earth shall be stretched like a skin, and shall cast forth
that which is therein;

"By the heaven adorned with signs, by the witness and the witnessed;

"By that which appeareth by night; by the daybreak and the ten
nights--the ten nights;

"The night of Al Kadr is better than a thousand months.

"Praise be to God, the Lord of all creatures; the Most Merciful, the
King of the Day of Judgment. Thee do we worship, and of thee do we beg
assistance. Direct us in the right way, in the way of those to whom
thou hast been gracious; not of those against whom thou art incensed,
nor of those who go astray!"

       *       *       *       *       *

In the sudden silence that spread across earth and heaven I heard the
sound of a voice under the earth, calling, calling, calling.

"It is already spring," said Sweetheart; and she rose, placing her
white hands in mine. "Shall we go?"

"But we are already there," I stammered, turning my eyes fearfully; for
the tall pines dwindled and clustered and rose again cool and gray in
the morning air, all turned to stone, fretted and carved like lacework;
and where the pines had faded, the twin towers of a cathedral loomed;
and where the hills swept across the horizon, the roofs of a white city
glimmered in the morning sun. Bridges and quays and streets and domes
and the hum of traffic and rattle of arms; and over all, the veil of
haze and the twin gray towers of Notre Dame!

"Sweetheart!" I faltered.

But we were already in my studio.


IV.

The studio had not changed. The sun flooded it.

Sweetheart sat in the broken armchair and watched me struggle with the
packing. Every now and then she made an impulsive movement toward the
heap of clothes on the floor, which I checked with a "Thanks! I can fix
it all alone, Sweetheart."

Clifford seemed to extract amusement from it all, and said as much to
Rowden, who was as usual ruining my zitherine by trying to play it like
a banjo.

Elliott, knowing he could be of no use to us, had the decency to
sit outside the studio on one of the garden benches. He appeared at
intervals at the studio door, saying, "Come along, Clifford; they don't
want you messing about. Drop that banjo, Rowden, or Jack will break
your head with it--won't you, Jack?"

I said I would, but not with the zitherine.

Clifford flatly refused to move unless Sweetheart would take him
out into our garden and show him the solitary goldfish which lurked
in the fountain under the almond trees. But Sweetheart, apparently
fascinated by the mysteries of packing, turned a deaf ear to Clifford's
blandishments and Rowden's discords.

"I imagined," said Clifford, somewhat hurt, "that you would delight in
taking upon yourself the duties of a hostess. I should be pleased to
believe that I am not an unwelcome guest."

"So should I," echoed Rowden; "I'd be pleased too."

"What a shame for you to bother, Jack!" she said. "Mr. Clifford shall
go and make some tea directly. Mr. Rowden, you may take a table out by
the fountain--and stay there."

Clifford, motioning Elliott to take the other end of the Japanese
table, backed with it through the hallway and out to the gravel walk,
expostulating.

"The sugar is there in that tin box by the model stand," she said, when
he reappeared, "and the extra spoons are lying in a long box on Jack's
big easel."

When Rowden, reluctantly relinquishing the zitherine, followed
Clifford, bearing the cups and alcohol lamp, I raised my head and
wiped the dust from my forehead. I believe I swore a little in French.
Sweetheart looked startled. She knew more French than I supposed she
did.

"What is it, Jack?"

"Mais--rien, ça m'embête--cette espèce de malle----"

"Then why won't you let me help you, Jack? I can at least put in my
gowns."

"But I must pack my colour box first, and the gun case, and the
box of reels, and the pastel case, and our shooting boots, and the
water-colour box, and the cartridge belt, and your golf shoes, and----"

"O dear!" said Sweetheart with a shudder.

I stood up and scowled at the trunk.

"To look at you, Jack," murmured Sweetheart, "one might think you
unhappy."

Unhappy! At the thought our eyes met across the table.

"Unhappy!" I whispered.

Then Clifford came stumbling in, wearing a pair of Joseph's sabots,
and, imitating that faithful domestic in voice and manner, invited us
to tea under the lilacs and almond blossoms.

"In a moment," cried Sweetheart impatiently. "Go and pour the tea."

Clifford looked aghast. "No, no!" he cried; "it's impossible--I won't
believe that you two are deliberately getting rid of me so you can be
alone to spoon! And your honeymoon already a year old, and----"

Sweetheart frowned, and tapped her foot.

Clifford retired indignant.

Then she raised her eyes to mine, and a delicate colour stained her
cheeks and neck.

"Yes," I said, "we have been married nearly a year, Sweetheart."

We looked at our white shadows on the floor.


V.

Sweetheart sat under the lilac blossoms pouring out tea for Clifford,
Elliott, and Rowden. She was gracious to Clifford, gentle to Elliott,
and she took Rowden under her wing in the sweetest way possible, to
which Clifford stated his objections.

"Mr. Rowden is younger than you are," she said gravely. "Monsieur
Clifford, I do not wish you to torment him."

"Rowden's no baby; he's as old as Jack is, and Jack doesn't murder
music."

"I am glad to see you acknowledge Jack's superiority in all matters,"
said Sweetheart with a dangerous smile.

"I don't," cried Clifford laughing; "and I don't see what you find
to care about in a man who clips his hair like a gendarme and paints
everything purple."

"Everything is purple--if Jack paints it so," said Sweetheart, smiling
at her reflected face in the water. She stood at the rim of the little
stone fountain with her hands clasped behind her back. Elliott and
Clifford were poking about in the water plants to dislodge the solitary
goldfish, while Rowden gathered dewy clusters of lilacs as an offering.

"There he goes!" said Elliott.

"Poor fellow, living there all alone!" said Sweetheart. "Jack must
leave word with Joseph to get him a little lady fish to pay his court
to."

"Better put in another gentleman fish, then, if you're following
Nature," said Clifford, with an attempt at cynicism which drew the
merriest laugh from Sweetheart.

"Oh, how funny is Monsieur Clifford when he wants to be like
Frenchmen!" she murmured.

"Jack," said Elliott, as I came from the studio and picked up a cup of
tea grown cold, "Clifford's doing the world-worn disenchanted roué."

"And--and I fear he will next make love to me!" cried Sweetheart.

"You'd better look out, Jack," said Clifford darkly, and pretended to
sulk until Sweetheart sent him off to buy the bonbons she would need
for the train.

"They're packed," I said, "every trunk of them!"

Sweetheart was enchanted. "All my new gowns, and the shoes
from Rix's--O Jack, you didn't forget the shoes--and the bath
robes--and----"

"All packed," I said, swallowing the tea with a wry face.

"Oh," she cried reproachfully, "don't drink that! Here, I will have
some hot tea in a moment," and she ran over and perched on the arm of
the garden bench while I lighted the alcohol lamp and then a cigarette.

Rowden came up with his offering of lilacs, and she decorated each of
us with a spray.

It was growing late. The long shadows fell across the gravel walks and
flecked the white walls of the sculptor's studio opposite.

"It's the nine-o'clock train, isn't it?" said Elliott.

"We will meet you at the station at eight-thirty," added Rowden.

"You don't mind, do you, our dining alone?" said Sweetheart shyly;
"it's our last day--Jack's and mine--in the old studio."

"Not the last, I hope," said Elliott sincerely.

We all sat silent for a moment.

"O Paris, Paris--how I fear it!" murmured Sweetheart to me; and in the
same breath, "No, no, we must love it, you and I."

Then Elliott said aloud, "I suppose you have no idea when you will
return?"

"No," I replied, thinking of the magic second that had become a year.

And so we dined alone, Sweetheart and I, in the old studio.

At half-past eight o'clock the cab stood at the gate with all our traps
piled on top, and Joseph and his wife and the two brats were crying,
"Au revoir, madame! au revoir, monsieur! We will keep the studio well
dusted. Bon voyage! bon voyage!" and all of a sudden my arm was caught
by Sweetheart's little gloved hand, and she drew me back through
the long ivy-covered alley to the garden where the studio stood, its
doorway closed and silent, the hollow windows black and grim. Truly the
light had passed away with the passing of Sweetheart. Her hand slipped
from my arm, and she went and knelt down at the threshold and kissed
it.

"I first knew happiness when I first crossed it," she said; "it breaks
my heart to leave it. Only that magic second! but it seems years that
we have lived here."

"It was you who brought happiness to it," I said.

"Good-bye! good-bye, dear, dear, old studio!" she cried. "Oh, if Jack
is always the same to me as he has been here--if he will be faithful
and true in that new home!"

The new home was to be in a strange land. Sweetheart was a little
frightened, but was dying to go there. Sweetheart had never seen the
golden gorse ablaze on the moors of Morbihan.


VI.

I went inside the brass railing and waited my turn to buy the tickets.
When it came, I took two first class to Quimperlé, for it was to be
an all-night ride, and there was no sleeping car. Clifford had taken
charge of the baggage, and I went with him to have it registered,
leaving Sweetheart with Elliott and Rowden. All the traps were
there--the big trunks, the big valises, my sketching kit, the zitherine
in a leather case, two handbags, a bundle of umbrellas and canes, and a
huge package of canvases. The toilet case and the rugs and waterproofs
we took with us into the compartment.

The compartment was empty. Sweetheart nestled into one corner, and
when I had placed our traps in the racks overhead I sat down opposite,
while Clifford handed in our sandwiches, a bottle of red wine, and
Sweetheart's box of bonbons.

We didn't say much; most had been said before starting. Clifford was
more affected than he cared to show--I know by the way he grasped my
hand. They are dear fellows, every one. We did not realize that we were
actually going--going, perhaps, forever. She laughed, and chatted, and
made fun of Clifford, and teased Rowden, aided and abetted by Elliott,
until the starting gong clanged and a warning whistle sounded along the
gaslit platform.

"Jack," cried Clifford, leaning in the window, "God bless you! God
bless you both!"

Elliott touched her hand and wrung mine, and Rowden risked his neck to
give us both one last cordial grasp.

"Count on me--on us," cried Clifford, speaking in English, "if you
are--troubled!"

By what, my poor Clifford? Can you, with all your gay courage, turn
back the hands of the dials? Can you, with all your warm devotion, add
one second to the magic second and make it two? The shadows we cast are
white.

The train stole out into the night, and I saw them grouped on the
platform, silhouettes in the glare of the yellow signals. I drew in my
head and shut the window. Sweetheart's face had grown very serious, but
now she smiled across from her corner.

"Aren't you coming over by me, Jack?"


VII.

We must have been moving very swiftly, for the car rocked and trembled,
and it was probably that which awoke me. I looked across at Sweetheart.
She was lying on her side, one cheek resting on her gloved hand, her
travelling cap pushed back, her eyes shut. I smoothed away the curly
strands of hair which straggled across her cheeks, and tucked another
rug well about her feet. Her feet were small as a child's. I speak as
if she were not a child. She was eighteen then.

The next time I awoke we lay in a long gaslit station. Some soldiers
were disembarking from the forward carriages, and a gendarme stalked up
and down the platform.

I looked sleepily about for the name of the station. It was painted
in blue over the buffet--"Petit St. Yves." "Is it possible we are in
Brittany?" I thought. Then the voices of the station hands, who were
hoisting a small boat upon the forward carriage, settled my doubts.
"Allons! tire hardiment, Jean Louis! mets le cannotte deboutte."

"Arrête toi Yves! doucement! doucement! Sacrée garce!"

Somewhere in the darkness a mellow bell tolled. I settled back to
slumber, my eyes on Sweetheart.

She slept.


VIII.

I awoke in a flood of brightest sunshine. From our window I could look
into the centre of a most enchanting little town, all built of white
limestone and granite. The June sunshine slanted on thatched roof and
painted gable, and fairly blazed on the little river slipping by under
the stone bridge in the square.

The streets and the square were alive with rosy-faced women in white
head-dresses. Everywhere the constant motion of blue skirts and
spotless coiffes, the twinkle of varnished socks, the clump! clump! of
sabots.

Like a black shadow a priest stole across the square. Above him the
cross on the church glowed like a live cinder, flashing its reflection
along the purple-slated roof from the eaves of which a cloud of
ash-gray pigeons drifted into the gutter below. I turned from the
window to encounter Sweetheart's eyes. Her lips moved a little, her
long lashes heavy with slumber drooped lower, then with a little sigh
she sat bolt upright. When I laughed, as I always did, she smiled,
a little confused, a little ashamed, murmuring: "Bonjour, mon chéri!
Quelle heure est-il?" That was always the way Sweetheart awoke.

"O dear, I am so rumpled!" she said. "Jack, get me the satchel this
minute, and don't look at me until I ask you to."

I unlocked the satchel, and then turning to the window again threw it
wide open. Oh, how sweet came the morning air from the meadows! Some
young fellows below on the bank of the stream were poking long cane
fishing-rods under the arches of the bridge.

"Sweetheart," I said over my shoulder, "I believe there are trout in
this stream."

"Mr. Elliott says that whenever you see a puddle you always say that,"
she replied.

"What does he know about it?" I answered, for I am touchy on the
subject; "he doesn't know a catfish from a--a dogfish."

"Neither do I, Jack dear, but I'm going to learn. Don't be cross."

She had finished her toilet and came over to the window, leaning out
over my shoulder.

"Where are we?" she cried in startled wonder at the little white town
and the acres of swaying clover. "Oh, Jack, is--is this the country?"

A man in uniform passing under our window looked up surprised.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded; then, seeing Sweetheart, he
took off his gold-laced cap, and added, with a bow: "This carriage goes
no farther, monsieur--madame----"

"Merci!" exclaimed Sweetheart, "we wish to go to Quimperlé!"

"And we have tickets for Quimperlé," I insisted.

"But," smiled the official, "this is Quimperlé."

It was true. There was the name written over the end of the station;
and, looking ahead, I saw that our car had been detached and was
standing in stately seclusion under the freight shed. How long it had
been standing so Heaven alone knows; but they evidently had neglected
to call us, and there we were inhabiting a detached carriage in the
heart of Quimperlé. I managed to get a couple of porters, and presently
we found all our traps piled up on the platform, and a lumbering
vehicle with a Breton driver waiting to convey us to the hotel.

"Which," said I to the docile Breton, "is the best hotel in Quimperlé?"

"The Hôtel Lion d'Or," he replied.

"How do you know?" I demanded.

"Because," said he mildly, "it is the only hotel in Quimperlé."

Sweetheart observed that this ought to be convincing, even to me,
and she tormented me all the way to the square, where I got even by
pretending to be horrified at her dishevelled condition incident to a
night's railway ride in a stuffy compartment.

"Don't, Jack! people will look at us."

"Let 'em."

"Oh, this is cruel! Oh, I'll pay you for this!"

And they did look at us--or rather at her; for from the time Sweetheart
and I had cast our lots together, I noticed that I seemed to escape the
observation of passers-by. When I lived alone in Paris I attracted a
fair share of observation from the world as it wagged on its Parisian
way. It was pleasant to meet a pretty girl's eyes now and then in the
throng which flowed through the park and boulevard. I really never
flattered myself that it was because of my personal beauty; but in
Paris, any young fellow who is dressed in the manner of Albion, hatted
and gloved in the same style, is not entirely a cipher. But now it was
not the same, by a long shot.

Sweetheart's beauty simply put me in my place as an unnoticed but
perhaps correct supplement to her.

She knew she was a beauty, and was delighted when she looked into her
mirror. Nothing escaped her. The soft hair threaded with sunshine,
which, when loosened, curled to her knees; the clear white forehead and
straight brows; the nose delicate and a trifle upturned; the scarlet
lips and fine cut chin--she knew the value of each of these. She was
pleased with the soft, full curve of her throat, the little ears, and
the colour which came and went in her cheeks.

But her eyes were the first thing one noticed. They were the most
beautiful gray eyes that ever opened under silken lashes. She approved
of my telling her this, which duty I fulfilled daily. Perhaps it may be
superfluous to say that we were very much in love. Did I say _were_?

I think that, as I am chanting the graces of Sweetheart, it might not
be amiss to say that she is just an inch shorter than I am, and that
no Parisienne carried a pretty gown with more perfection than she
did. I have seen gowns that looked like the devil on the manikin, but
when Sweetheart wore them they were the astonishment and admiration of
myself. And I do know when a woman is well dressed, though I am an art
critic.

Sweetheart regarded her beauty as an intimate affair between ourselves,
a precious gift for our mutual benefit, to be carefully treasured and
petted. Her attitude toward the world was unmistakable. The world might
look--she was indifferent. With our intimate friends she was above
being flattered. Clifford said to me once: "She carries her beauty as
a princess would carry the Koh-i-noor--she knows she is worthy of it,
and hopes it is worthy of her."

"We ought to be so happy that I am beautiful!" she would say to me.
"Just think, supposing I were not!"

I used to try to make her believe that it would have made no difference.

"Oh, not now," she would say gravely. "I know that if I lost it it
would be the same to us both, now; but you can't make me believe that,
at first, when you used to lean over the terrace of the Luxembourg and
wait patiently for hours just to see me walk out of the Odeon."

"I didn't," I would always explain; "I was there by accident."

"Oh, what a funny accident to happen every day for two months!"

"Stop teasing! Of course, after the first week----"

"And what a funny accident that I should pass the same way every day
for two months, when before I always went by the Rue de Seine!"

There was once such an accident, and such a girl. I never knew her; she
is dead. I wondered sometimes that Sweetheart knew, and believed it was
she herself. Yet the other woman's shadow was black.

Sweetheart had a most peculiar and unworldly habit of not embellishing
facts. She presently displayed it when we arrived at the Hôtel Lion
d'Or.

"Jack," said she nervously, "the cinders have made your face
unpleasant. I am ashamed. They may not believe you are my husband."

"As monsieur and madame," I said, "we may have dirty faces and be
honest."

"Do you suppose they--they will believe it? These queer people----"

"They'd better!" I said fiercely.

"I--I hadn't thought of that," she said. "You see, in our own little
place in Paris everybody knew it, but here----"

I said, "Dearest, what nonsense!" and we marched unceremoniously up
to the register, where I wrote our names. Then, with a hasty little
squeeze of her gloved hand, she turned to the maid and tripped off to
inspect our quarters. While I was pumping the fat-headed old proprietor
about the trout fishing in the vicinity, the maid returned with the
request that I mount to the room above. I followed her along the tiled
passages and found Sweetheart sitting on a trunk.

"It's charming! charming!" she said. "Just look at the roses outside,
and the square, and the river! and oh, Jack, the funny little Breton
cattle, and the old man with knee-breeches! It's charming! and"--here
she caught sight of the enraptured and fascinated maid--"and you are
charming, with your red cheeks and white coiffe," she said. "Oh, how
pretty!"

"Oh, madame!" murmured the servant in dire confusion.

I said, "Dearest, that will do. Nobody speaks of my peculiar charms,
and I wish to be noticed."

The presence of the maid prevented Sweetheart from making amends, so we
told her we were satisfied, and we would spare her life if she prepared
breakfast in seventeen seconds.

She accepted the gift of existence with a dazed courtsey, and vanished.

It was refreshing to get hold of a sponge and cold water after fourteen
hours in a cramped compartment. Hunger drove us to hurry--a thing we
rarely did in the morning--and the way we splashed cold water about
would have been fatal to any but a tiled floor.

"Dear," I said, "you have not yet seen me in my Tyrolese knickerbockers
and beautiful shooting jacket. You have never beheld my legs clothed in
Tyrolese stockings, at twenty francs a pair."

"The legs?" she inquired from the depths of a bath robe.

I ignored the question, and parted my hair with care. Then I sat down
on the window and whistled.

Of course I was ready first. Sweetheart's hair had got into a tangle
and needed to be all combed out.

"Oh, I know you are impatient, because you're whistling the Chant du
Départ," she said from the door of her toilet room.

"As usual," I said, "I am ready first."

"If you say that again----" she threatened.

I said it, and dodged a sponge. Presently I was requested to open the
trunk and select a gown for her. Dear little Sweetheart! she loved
to pretend that she had so many it needed long consultation to decide
which.

"The dark blue?" I inquired.

"Don't you think it is too warm?"

"The pale blue, then--or the pink and white?"

"Why not the white, with the cuffs à l'Anglaise, and the canoe hat?"

I hauled it out.

Then, of course, she changed her mind.

"I think the gray is better for the morning; then I can wear the big
chip hat."

I fished up the gray. It was light, almost silvery, and had white spots
on it.

"Jack, dear," she said, coming out with her hair tucked up in a knot,
drawing the bath robe up to her chin with both hands, "I think that the
white cloth would be better, and that I can wear the béret."

By this time the trunk was in a pretty mess, which amused her; but at
last I ferreted out the white cloth dress, and, refusing to listen to
further discussion, sat down on the window seat. Sweetheart enjoyed it.

"Stop telling me to hurry," she said; "I can't, if you keep saying it
all the time."

After a while she called me to fasten her corsage, which hooked with
about ten hundred hooks along the side and collar. I hated to do it,
and my finger ends stung for hours after, but, as Sweetheart very
rightly says, "When we are rich enough to have a maid you needn't," I
submitted with an air which delighted her. Her tormenting "Thank you,
Jack," was the last straw, so I calmly picked her up and carried her
out, and almost to the dining room, where I set her down just in time
to avoid the proprietor and three domestics issuing from the office.

Sweetheart was half inclined to laugh, half indignant, and wholly
scandalized. But she did not dare say anything, for we were at the
dining-room door.

There were some people there, but except for a slight inclination we
did not notice each other. We had a small table to ourselves by the
rose-bowered window.

We were very hungry. Breakfast began with fresh sardines just caught,
and ended with little Breton cakes and a demi-tasse. I finished first;
I always do, because the wretched habit of bolting my food, contracted
while studying under Bouguereau at Julian's, clings to me yet. Oh,
I shall have a merry time paying for it when I am forty! I began, as
usual, to tease Sweetheart.

"If you continue to eat like this, dear, you will never be able to wear
your new frocks. This one seems a trifle too tight now."

Sweetheart, who prided herself as much on her figure as on her lovely
face, repelled the insult with disdain and nibbled her Breton biscuit
defiantly. When at last she condescended to rise, we strolled out
under the trees in front of the hotel, and sat down on the low stone
wall surrounding the garden. The noon sun hung in the zenith, flooding
the town with a dazzling downpour. Sunbeams glanced and danced on
the water; sunbeams filtered through the foliage; sunbeams stole
under Sweetheart's big straw hat, searching the depths of the gray
eyes. Sunbeams played merry mischief with my ears and neck, which
were beginning to sting in the first sunburn of the year. Through the
square the white-coiffed women passed and repassed; small urchins with
silver-buckled hatbands roamed about the bridge and market-place until
collected and trooped off to school by a black-robed Jesuit frère;
and in the shade of the trees a dozen sprawling men in Breton costume
smoked their microscopical pipes and watched the water.

"They are an industrious race," said I with fine irony, watching a
happy inebriate pursuing a serpentine course toward the café opposite.

Sweetheart, who was as patriotic a little girl as ever hummed the
Marseillaise, and adopted France as long as she lived in it, was up in
arms in an instant.

"I have read," she said with conviction, "that the Bretons are a brave,
industrious race. They are French."

"They speak a different language," I said--"not a word of French in it."

"They are French," repeated Sweetheart, with an inflection which
decided me to shun the subject until I could unpack my guide-book.

We sat a little while longer under the trees, until we both began
nodding and mutually accused each other. Then Sweetheart went up to
the room to take a nap, and I, scorning such weakness, lay down in a
steamer chair under our window and fell fast asleep in no time.

I was aroused by a big pink rose which hit me squarely on the mouth.
Sweetheart was perched in the window seat above, and as I looked up she
sent a shower of blossoms down upon me.

"Jack, you lazy creature, it's five o'clock, and I'm dressed and ready
for a walk!"

"So am I," I said, jumping up.

"But not like that. You must come up and make yourself nice for dinner."

"Nice? What's the matter with these tweeds? Aren't these new stockings
presentable?"

"Look at your hair!" she said evasively. "Come up this minute and brush
it."

I went, and was compelled to climb into a white collar and shirt, and
trousers of an English cut. But before we had gone far along the great
military road that climbed the heights above the little river, I took
Sweetheart's hand in mine and imparted to her my views and intentions
upon the subject of my costume for the future.

"You see, dearest, we are here in Brittany for three reasons. The
first is, that I should paint outdoors. The second is, that we should
economize like the deuce. The third is, our shadows----"

"I know," she interrupted faintly. "Never mind, Jack, dear."

We walked silently for a while, hand clasping hand very tightly, for we
were both thinking of the third reason.

I broke the silence first, speaking cheerfully, and she looked up with
a quick smile while the shadow fell from her brow.

"You see, dear, in this place, where we are going, there are no people
but peasants. Your frocks are all right for a place like this; we
must both wear our free-and-easy togs--I for painting, and you for
scrambling about after your wild flowers or fishing with me. If you get
tired of seeing me in corduroys or tweeds, I'll dress for you when you
think you can't stand it any longer."

"Oh, Jack, I do like your knickerbockers----"

"And you shall wear your most gorgeous gown for me----"

"Indeed I won't," she laughed, adding impulsively, "indeed I
will--every day, if you wish it!"

At the top of the hill stood an ancient Ursuline convent surrounded
by a high wall, which also inclosed the broad acres of the wealthy
sisterhood. We sat down by the roadside hedge and looked across the
valley, where the hurrying river had ceased to hasten and now lingered
in placid pools and long, deep reaches. The sun had set behind the
forest, and the sky threw a purple light over woods and meadow. The
grassy pools below were swept by flocks of whistling martins and
swallows. One or two white gulls flapped slowly toward the tide water
below, and a young curlew, speeding high overhead, uttered a lonesome
cry. The grass--the brilliant green grass of Brittany--had turned a
deep metallic blue in the twilight. A pale primrose light grew and died
in the sky, and the forest changed from rose to ashes. Then a dull red
bar shot across the parting clouds in the west, the forest smouldered
an instant, and the pools glowed crimson. Slowly the red bar melted
away, the light died out among the branches, the pools turned sombre.
Looking up, we saw the new moon flashing in the sky above our heads.
Sweetheart sighed in perfect contentment.

"It's beautiful!" I said, with another sigh.

"Ah, yes," she murmured, "beautiful to you, and to me--to me, Jack, who
have never before seen this land of Morbihan."

After a while she said, "And the ocean--oh, how I long to see it! Is it
near us, Jack?"

"The river runs into it twenty kilometres below. We feel the tide at
Quimperlé." I did not add, "Baedeker."

"I wonder," I said presently, "what are the feelings of a little
American who sees this country--the real country--for the first time?"

"I suppose you mean me," she said. "I don't know--I don't think I
understand it yet, but I know I shall love it, and never want to go
back."

"Perhaps we never shall," I said. "The magic second may stretch into
years that end at last as all ends."

Then our hands met in that sudden nervous clasp which seemed to help
and steady us when we were thinking of the real world, so long, so long
forgotten.


IX.

I was awakened next morning by a spongeful of cold water in the face,
which I hate. I started up to wreak vengeance upon Sweetheart, but she
fled to the toilet room and locked herself in. From this retreat she
taunted me until further sleep was out of the question, and I bowed
to the inevitable--indignantly, when I saw my watch pointed to five
o'clock.

Sweetheart was perfectly possessed to row; so when I had bolted my
coffee and sat watching her placidly sip hers, we decided to go down to
the bank of the little stream and hire a boat. The boat was a wretched,
shapeless affair, with two enormous oars and the remnants of rowlocks.
It was the best boat in town, so we took it. I managed to get away
from the bank, and, conscious of Sweetheart's open admiration, pulled
boldly down the stream. It was easy work, for the tide was ebbing. The
river up to the bridge was tidal, but above the bridge it leaped and
flowed, a regular salmon stream. Sweetheart was so impatient to take
the oars that I relinquished them and picked up my rod. The boat swung
down the stream and under the high stone viaduct, where I insisted
on anchoring and whipping the promising-looking water. The water was
likely enough, and the sudden splash of a leaping grilse added to its
likelihood. I was in hopes a grilse might become entangled with one of
the flies, but though a big one shot up out of the water within five
feet of Sweetheart, causing her to utter a suppressed scream, neither
grilse nor trout rose to the beautiful lures I trailed about, and I
only hooked two or three enormous dace, which came up like logs and
covered the bottom of the boat with their coarse scales.

Sweetheart had never seen a French trout uncooked, and scarcely shared
my disappointment.

"They are splendid fish," she repeated; "you are unreasonable."

There was an ancient Breton squatting on the bank; from his sulky
attitude I took him to be a poacher visiting his infernal set lines and
snares; but I hailed him pleasantly with a bonjour, which he returned
civilly enough.

"Are there trout in this stream?"

"About the bridge," he replied cautiously.

"Have you caught any?"

"I ain't fishing," he said, much alarmed.

"What's that?" I demanded, pointing to as plump a trout as ever I saw,
floating on the end of a string under the bank.

"Where?" he asked, looking about him with affected concern.

"There!"

He looked around, everywhere except where I pointed. He examined the
horizon, and the tree tops, as though he expected a fish on every twig.
I poled the boat up to the bank and pointed out the fish.

"Ma doui!" he exclaimed, "there _is_ a fish!"

"Yes, a trout," I said.

"Trout?" He burst into a forced laugh. "Trout! Ha! ha! Why, monsieur,
that is a dace--a poor little dace!" He hastily jerked it up with a
long homemade gaff which lay--of course quite by accident--at his feet.

"A poor little dace!" he mumbled. "Of course, monsieur would not care
to claim such a poor, coarse little fish; but I am only too glad to eat
it--ah, yes, only too glad!"

"You see," said Sweetheart impulsively, "that you are wrong. Give him
our fish; that will make four dace for the poor fellow."

I placed the three dace across the blade of my oar and held it out to
the poacher. He took them as if he were really glad to get them. Then
I said, "These are dace, and they don't have red spots."

He stood as if ready to bolt, but I laughed, and settled back on my
oars, saying: "You're a poacher; but I don't care a continental, and
you can poach all day in this confounded country, where there is about
one trout to the kilometre. Don't look scared. What do I care? Only
don't tell me I'm unable to distinguish a trout when I can see the tip
of his nose."

I then sailed majestically out into the stream.

Sweetheart wanted to know whether that was really a real poacher.
She had read about them. Her ideal poacher was a young, stalwart,
eagle-eyed giant, with a tangle of hair and a disposition toward
assassination. The reality shocked her.

"Anyway," she said, "you frightened the poor old thing. How rough men
are!"

We returned to the landing place with difficulty, for the tide was
still on the ebb, and we got aground more than once. My hands were in
a fine condition when at last I drove that wretched scow into the mud
and lifted Sweetheart out to the firm bank. The evil-eyed old man who
rented us the boat glanced sardonically at my rod and blistered hands,
and I was glad enough to pay him all he asked and break away for the
hotel.

We had an hour to lunch in, pack, and be ready for the trap which
was to bear us to our destination--the distant village of Faöuet, in
Morbihan.


X.

A long drive on a smooth white road, acres of gorse and broom, beech
woods and oak thickets, and the "Heu! heu! Allo! Allons! en route!" of
the Breton driver, these are my recollections of the ride to Faöuet.
There are others, too--the hedges heavy with bloom, the perfume of the
wild honeysuckle, the continual bird chorus from every grove and every
bramble patch--and Sweetheart's veil flying into my face.

We have spoken of it since together, but she has few recollections
of that journey. She only remembers it as her first steps into our
heritage.

And so we entered into our heritage, Sweetheart and I; and our heritage
was very fair, for it lay everywhere about us. It was a world which
we alone inhabited. Men said, "This land is Gloanec's," "This is
Gurnalec's," "This is Kerdec's"; they spoke of "my woods" and "his
meadows" and "their pastures." And how we laughed; for when we passed
together through their lands, around us, far as the eye could reach,
our heritage lay in the sunshine.


XI.

One day, when Sweetheart had been weeping--for we were thinking of the
end to the magic second--I spoke of our heritage which swept far as the
eye could reach across the moors of Faöuet.

She said: "The past is ours, Jack; the present is ours; the future----"

We tried to smile, but our hearts were like lead. Yet we know that the
future will also be ours. I know it as I write.


XII.

The letter from St. Gildas, bringing with it a breath of salt air, lay
on the table before us. Sweetheart clasped her hands and looked at me.

"I'm in favour of going at once," I said for the third time. Over by
the wall were piled my canvases, the result of three months in Faöuet.

The first was a study of Sweetheart under the trees of the ancient
orchard in the convent grounds. What trouble I had had with that
canvas! I remembered the morning that the old gardener came over
and stood behind me as I painted; and when I had replied to his
"Good-morning," I recalled the pang his next words gave me:

"I am so sorry, monsieur, but it is forbidden to enter the convent
grounds."

My canvas was almost finished, and, as the romancers have it, "my
despair was great!" A month's work for nothing--or next to nothing!

Sweetheart rose from her pose on the low bough of the apple tree and
came over to my side. "Never mind, Jack; I shall go and ask the Mother
Superior about it."

I knew that she would win over the Mother Superior; and when, that
evening, she came back radiant, crying, "She is lovely!--she says you
may finish the picture, and I think you ought to go and thank her," I
put on my cap, and stepping across the street, we rang at the gate.

The old gardener let us in, and in a moment I stood before the latticed
windows behind which some one was moving. In a low voice the invisible
nun told us that the Superior granted to us the privilege of working in
the orchard, but we must be careful of the grass, because it was almost
time to cut it.

"I am sure we may have confidence in you," she said.

"We will not trample the grass, my sister, and I thank you for us both."

The lattice trembled, was raised a little, and then fell.

"You are English," said the hidden nun.

"I am American, my sister."

I looked at the lattice a moment, then dropped my eyes. I may have been
mistaken, but I think she sighed.

Sweetheart came closer to the lattice and murmured her thanks.

There was a pause.

Then came the voice again, sweet and gentle: "May Our Lady of Saint
Gildas protect you"; and we went out by the little iron wicket.

The next picture was another study of Sweetheart in the woods; the
next, another study of Sweetheart; and the others were studies of the
same young lady.

The light in the room had grown dim, and I walked to the window which
overlooked the convent chapel. The chapel windows were open; within,
the nuns stood or knelt chanting. Three white-veiled figures were
advancing to the altar, and the others, draped in black now knelt
behind. I didn't think I had any business to look at them, so I did
not. After all, they were cloistered nuns, and it was only on hot
nights that they opened the chapel windows. Sweetheart was speaking
beside my shoulder.

"Poor things! The ones in white, they are the novices; they will never
see parents or friends again. When they enter the gates they never
leave--never; they are buried there."

I said: "After all, we are much like them. We have left all; we have
nothing now but each other, for the world is dead, and we are bound by
vows which keep us within the narrow confines of our heritage."

"But our heritage is everywhere--as far as we can see."

"Ah, yes, but we can only see to the horizon. There is a world beyond."

"I have renounced it," said Sweetheart faintly.


XIII.

The letter from St. Gildas had been lying on our table for a week
before I thought of answering it, and even then it was Sweetheart who
wrote:

     "DEAR MR. STUART:

     "Jack is too lazy to answer your kind note, so, in pure shame
     for his discourtesy, I hasten to reply to your questions.

     "First: Yes; we have been working very hard, and Jack's
     pictures are charming, though he growls over them all day.

     "Second: Yes; we intend to stay in Brittany this winter for
     lots of reasons--one being economy, and another, Jack's
     outdoor painting.

     "Third: Yes; we are coming to St. Gildas.

     "Fourth: To-morrow.

     "Fifth: No; we had not heard of Mr. Clifford's affair with
     the policeman; and oh, I am so sorry he was locked up and
     fined! Jack laughs. I suspect he, too, was as wicked as you
     all when he was a student, alone in Paris.

     "Sixth: I know you are Jack's oldest and most intimate friend,
     so I allow you more liberty than I do Messieurs Clifford and
     Elliott; therefore I will answer your question as to whether
     the honeymoon is not on the wane. No! no! no! There are three
     answers to one question. See how generous I can be!"

Sweetheart called me to see whether or not I approved. I did, and added
my answer to Stuart's last question as follows: "No, you idiot!" Then
I signed the note, and Sweetheart sealed and directed it.

So we left for St. Gildas next morning before sunrise and in the rain.
This leaving at such an unearthly hour was not my doing, but Sweetheart
was determined, and rose by candlelight in spite of desperate
opposition on my part. It was cold, and the rain beat against the
windows.

It was many kilometres to St. Gildas, but before we had gone six, the
rain had ceased and the eastern sky flushed to a pale rose.

"Thank goodness!" I said, "we shall have the sun."

Then the daily repeated miracle of the coming of dawn was wrought
before our eyes. The heavens glowed in rainbow tints; the shredded mist
rising along the river was touched with purple and gold, and acres
of meadow and pasture dripped precious stones. Shreds of the fading
night-mist drifted among the tree tops, now tipped with fire, while in
the forest depths faint sparkles came from some lost ray of morning
light falling on wet leaves. Then of a sudden up shot the sun, and
against it, black and gigantic, a peasant towered, leaning upon his
spade.


XIV.

We were fast nearing the end of our long journey. The sun blazed on
us from the zenith, and the wheels creaked with the heat of the white
road. The driver leaned back, saying, "We enter Finistère here by this
granite post." Presently he added, "The ocean!"

There it lay, a basin of silver and blue. Sweetheart had started to her
feet, speechless, one hand holding to my shoulder, the other clasped
to her breast. And now, as the road wound through the hills and down
to the coast, long stretches of white sand skirted the distant cliffs,
and over the cliffs waved miles and miles of yellow gorse. A cluster of
white and gray houses lay in the hollow to the left almost at the mouth
of the river, and beyond, the waves were beating in the bar--beating
the same rhythm which we were to hear so long there together, day and
night. There was not a boat to be seen, not a creature, nor was there
any sign of life save for the smoke curling from a cottage chimney
below. The ocean lay sparkling beneath, and beyond its deeper blue
melted into the haze on the horizon.

Suddenly, in the road below, the figure of a man appeared, and at the
same moment a pointer pup came gambolling up beside us in an ecstasy
of self-abnegation and apology. I sprang out of the lumbering vehicle
and lifted Sweetheart to the ground, and in an instant we were shaking
hands with a stalwart young fellow in knickerbockers and jersey, who
said we were a pretty pair not to have come sooner, and told Sweetheart
he pitied her lot--meaning me.

Then we walked arm in arm down a fragrant lane to the river bank, where
the dearest old lady toddled out of the granite house to welcome us and
show us our rooms. Sweetheart went with her, while I stopped an instant
to chat with Stuart.

"That is Madame Ylven," he said. "She is the most stunning peasant
woman in Finistère, and you will want for nothing." Then, after a
moment, "Good heavens! Jack, what a beauty your wife----" He stopped
short, but added, "What a delicious little beauty Sweetheart has grown
to be!"

A white-coiffed maid came to the door, and said, "Will monsieur have
the goodness to come? Madame wishes him to see the rooms."

The wind blew from the south, and the thunder of the sea was in my ears
as I mounted the stairs to our new quarters.

Sweetheart met me at the door, saying, "It seems almost too much
happiness to bear, but I feel that we are at home at last--alone
together for all time."

Alone together? The ocean at our threshold, the moors and forests at
our back, and a good slate roof above us. Before me through the open
door I could see the great old-fashioned room, warm in the afternoon
sunlight--the room we were to live in so long, the room in which we
were to pass the happiest and bitterest moments of our lives.

She hesitated an instant before the threshold. I think we knew that we
stood upon the threshold of our destiny. Then I said, half in earnest:
"Are you afraid to cross with me into the unknown future? See, the room
is filled with sunshine. Are you afraid?"

She sprang across the threshold, and, turning to me, held out both
hands.


XV.

The sun slipped lower and lower into the sea, until a distant tossing
wave washed it out against the sky. Light died in the room, and shadows
closed around us; yet it was in the darkness and shadows that we drew
nearer to each other, then and after.


XVI.

Stuart stood under our window and yelled up at me, "Oh, Jack! I say,
Jack!"

Sweetheart, who was fussing over the half-unpacked trunk, went to the
window and threw open the panes.

"You don't mean to say you have had your coffee?" she said. "Jack isn't
up yet."

"Jack is up," I explained, coming to the window in pajamas. "Hello!"

"I only wanted to say that I haven't had my coffee," he explained, "and
I'm going to take it with you when you're ready."

Sweetheart picked up her béret, and, passing a hatpin through it,
turned to me with a warning, "I shall eat all the breakfast, monsieur!"
and vanished down the stairs. A moment later I heard her clear voice
below:

  Sonnez le chœur,
    Chasseur!
  Sonnez la mort!

Before I had finished dressing, Sweetheart tripped in with my coffee
and toast.

"Of course I've finished," she said, "and you don't deserve this.
Mr. Stuart has gone off with his canvases, and says he'll see you at
lunch."

I swallowed the coffee and browsed on little squares of toast which
she condescendingly buttered for me, and then, lighting a cigarette, I
announced my intention of commanding an exploring expedition consisting
of Sweetheart and myself. A scratching at the door and a patter of feet
announced that I had been overheard.

Sweetheart unlatched the door, and the pointer pup of the evening
before charged into the room and covered us with boisterous caresses,
which we took to indicate that he not only approved of the expedition,
but intended to undertake the general supervision of it himself. I
resigned the leadership at once.

"His name," said Sweetheart in the tone of one who presents a
distinguished guest, "is 'Luff.'"

I gravely acknowledged the honour by patting his head.

"I'm afraid," I said to Sweetheart, "that there is a bar sinister
upon his escutcheon, but possibly it is only the indelible mark of the
conquering British foxhound."

Sweetheart said, "Nonsense!" and the expedition moved, Luff leading
with a series of ear-splitting orders in the dog language which we
perfectly understood.

In ten minutes we stood on the cliffs, the salt wind whipping our
faces. Saint-Gildas-des-Prés lay at our feet.

"I know," observed Sweetheart calmly, "all about this place. Captain
Ylven told me at breakfast."

"Well," said I, "what's that island on the horizon?"

Then she overwhelmed me with erudition, until I longed for Baedeker and
revenge.

"That is the Isle de Groix, and all about us is the Bay of Biscay. This
little hamlet on the cliff is St. Julien, and if we follow the coast
far enough we come to Lorient."

"Follow the coast? Which way?"

Sweetheart had forgotten, and I triumphed in silence, until she stamped
her foot and marched off to assist Luff in investigating a suspicious
hole in the cliff.

I went to the edge of the plateau and looked over. The surf thundered
against the rocks, tossing long strands of seaweed over the pebbly
beach. A man with a wooden rake stood in the water up to his knees. He
raked the seaweed from the breakers as a farmer rakes weeds from the
lawn. The salt wind began to sting my lips and eyes. My throat felt dry
and salty. I turned toward the hamlet of St. Gildas. I had not imagined
it so small. Besides our house there were but three others clustered
under the river bank. Behind it stretched woods and grain fields broken
by patches of yellow gorse. Across the river stood a stone chapel
almost lost in the miles of moorland. To the east and west the downs
covered with gorse and heather rolled to the horizon. Here and there
along the cliffs stood what appeared to be the ruins of ancient forts,
and on a rock, just where the river sweeps out into the sea, rose a
dirty white signal tower. The tower was low and squatty and wet. It
looked like some saline excrescence which had slowly exuded from the
brine-soaked rock. On the bar hundreds of white gulls rose and settled
as the tide encroached; curlew were running along the foam-splashed
shore under the eastern cliffs across the river.

On our side of the river the cliffs were covered with blackthorn and
hawthorn, with here and there a stunted oak, probably so placed by
Providence as general rendezvous for all the small twittering birds of
Finistère. Birds were everywhere. From the clouds came the ceaseless
carol of skylarks; from the grain fields and the flowering gorse rose
an unbroken chorus, taken up and repeated by flocks of microscopical
songsters among the blackthorns on the cliffs.

"This is paradise, this wilderness," I thought.

Then, as I heard Sweetheart's mocking voice from the cliff:

  O frère Jacques,
  Dormez vous!

"I'm not asleep!" I cried in answer. "What is it?"

"Luff has unearthed a poor little mole, but I won't allow him to hurt
it."

"Jack, dear," she said, as I came up, "couldn't we keep it as a pet?
See, the poor little thing is blind."

As it was blind we called it "Love," which later was changed to
"Cupid," and finally, when we discovered it true gormandizing
character, for "Cupid" we substituted "Cupidity," by which name it
flourished and fattened.

"What a change," said Sweetheart sadly, "from Blind Love to Blind
Greed!"

The mole grew very fat.


XVII.

When the winds stir the leaves among the poplars, and the long shadows
fall athwart the fields; when the winds rise at night, and the branches
scrape and crack above the moonlit snow; when in the long hot days
the earth is bathed in fragrance, and all the little creatures of
the fields are silent; when in the still evenings the flowers perfume
the air, and the gravel walks shine white in the moonlight; when the
breezes quicken from the distant coast; when the sand shakes beneath
the shock of the breakers, and every wave is plumed with white; when
the calm eye of the beacon turns to mine, lingers, and turn away, and
the surf is yeasty and thick; when I start at the sound of a voice from
the cliffs, and my eyes are raised in vain; when the white gulls toss
and drift in the storm-clouds, and the water hurries out in the black
ebb tide; when I rise and look from the window; when I dress; when I
work with pen and colour; when I rest; when I walk; when I sleep--there
is one face before my eyes, one name on my lips. For the white shadow
is turning gray, and God alone knows the end.


XVIII.

And God alone knows the end, for the mists are crowding, brooding
like angry-browed clouds, and I hear the whistle of unseen winds, and
my life-flame wavers and sinks and flares, blown hither and thither,
tossing, fading, leaping, but fading, always fading.

In a flash, like a printed picture on a screen, illuminated, keenly
etched in the white glare, I see the bed, and the people around me,
the black gowns, the pale eyes of the doctor, the sponge and basin, the
rolls of lint.

Voices, minute but clean-cut and clear as picked harp-strings, tinkle
in my ears; the voice of the doctor, other voices, but always the
voice of the doctor--"The splinter of bone on the brain; the splinter
pressing on the tissues; the depression."

The doctor! That is the man! That is the man who comes to my side, who
follows, follows where I go, who seeks me throughout the world! I saw
him as I lay flung on the turf, limp, unconscious, below the cliffs
on the Aspen hills; I felt his presence in the studio; I heard him
creeping at my heels across the gorse thickets of St. Gildas. And now
he has come to cut short the magic second, to turn back time--back,
back, into the old worn channels, rock-ribbed and salt with tears.

As a leaf of written paper torn in two, so shall my life be torn in
two; and the long tear shall mangle the chapter written in rose and
gold.

Then, too, my shadow, already turned from white to gray, shall fall
with a deeper stain wherever I pass; and I shall see the yellow gorse
glimmer and turn to golden-rod, and the poplars turn to oaks; and the
twin towers of Notre Dame, filmy, lace-carved, and gray with centuries,
shall dwindle as I look--dwindle and sway and turn to pines, singing
pines that murmur to the winds, blowing across the Aspen hills.

       *       *       *       *       *

All that is fair shall pass away; all that I love, all that I fear
for--these shall the doctor take away, lifting them from my memory on
the point of a steel blade. What has he to give in return? A hell of
vapour, distorting sight; a hell of sound, drowning the soul.

       *       *       *       *       *

Gigantic apparitions arise across the world of water, wavering like
shadows on the clouds. Steel-clad, clothed in skins, casqued in steel,
their winged heads bend and nod and move against the clouds. And even
they are changing as clouds change shape. I see steel limbs turn red
and naked. I see winged casques trail to the earth, feathered, painted
in colours of earth.

Ihó! Inâh! Etó! E-hó!

The bridge of stars spans the vast lake of air; the sun and the moon
travel over it.

       *       *       *       *       *

My shadow is turning dark; I can scarcely see the doctor, but now--God
have mercy!--_I can touch him._

       *       *       *       *       *

All the high spectres are stooping from the clouds, bending above me to
watch. I know them and their eyes of shadow--I know them now; Hârpen
that was to Chaské what Hárpstinâ shall be to Hapéda; and Hârka shall
come after all with the voice of winter winds:

"Aké u, aké u, aké u!"

But the magic second shall never return.

"Mâ cânté maséca!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Now they leave my bed, the people who crowded there under the shadowy
forms of the spectres; now the doctor bends over; I see and feel him.
His hands are tangled in the threads of time; he is cutting a thread;
he----


XIX.

When I spoke to him first I spoke in the French language. Before he
answered, the scream of a blue jay in the elms outside set my nerves
aquiver, and I called for Donald and Walter.

As I lay there I could see the Aspen hills from the window, heaps
of crumpled gold bathed in sunshine. Over them sailed the froth from
the silken milkweed; over them drifted the big brown-red butterflies,
luminous as richest autumn leaves.

Some one closed the door softly. The doctor had gone.

The sunlight poured into the window, etching my shadow on the wall
behind. Lying very still there I saw it motionless beside me. _The
shadow was black._

Somebody said in the next room, "Will he die?"

"Die?" I said aloud.

A bird twittered outside my window.

The door opened again, noiselessly.

"Sweetheart?" I whispered.

"Yes, Jack."

After a moment I said, "When do you go back to school?"

"I? I finished school a year ago."

"Come nearer."

"I am here, Jack."

"Time stopped a year ago."

"A year ago to-day."

The same gray eyes, the same face, paler, perhaps.

"We have journeyed far," I sighed, "always together, but in those days
our shadows were white as snow. Am I going to die? There are tears in
your eyes."

They fell on my cheek; her arms fell too, closer, closer, around my
neck.

"Life has begun," she said.

"Life? What was the year that ends to-day? The magic second of life?"

"A year of death, to me!"

Ah, but her soul knows of a life in death! And she shall know it,
too, when her shadow turns whiter than snow. For the Temple of Idols
has closed its doors at the sound of a voice, and an idol of gilt has
turned to flesh and blood.

I-hó!

So shall she know of the life in death when her soul and her body are
one.




PASSEUR.


  O friends, I've served ye food and bed;
    O friends, the mist is rising wet;
  Then bide a moment, O my dead,
    Where, lonely, I must linger yet!




PASSEUR.

  Because man goeth to his long home,
  And the mourners go about the streets.


When he had finished his pipe he tapped the brier bowl against the
chimney until the ashes powdered the charred log smouldering across
the andirons. Then he sank back in his chair, absently touching the hot
pipe-bowl with the tip of each finger until it grew cool enough to be
dropped into his coat pocket.

Twice he raised his eyes to the little American clock ticking upon the
mantel. He had half an hour to wait.

The three candles that lighted the room might be trimmed to advantage;
this would give him something to do. A pair of scissors lay open
upon the bureau, and he rose and picked them up. For a while he stood
dreamily shutting and opening the scissors, his eyes roaming about the
room. There was an easel in the corner, and a pile of dusty canvases
behind it; behind the canvases there was a shadow--that gray, menacing
shadow that never moved.

When he had trimmed each candle he wiped the smoky scissors on a paint
rag and flung them on the bureau again. The clock pointed to ten; he
had been occupied exactly three minutes.

The bureau was littered with neckties, pipes, combs and brushes,
matches, reels and fly-books, collars, shirt studs, a new pair of
Scotch shooting stockings, and a woman's workbasket.

He picked out all the neckties, folded them once, and hung them over
a bit of twine that stretched across the looking-glass; the shirt
studs he shovelled into the top drawer along with brushes, combs, and
stockings; the reels and fly-books he dusted with his handkerchief
and placed methodically along the mantel shelf. Twice he stretched out
his hand toward the woman's workbasket, but his hand fell to his side
again, and he turned away into the room staring at the dying fire.

Outside the snow-sealed window a shutter broke loose and banged
monotonously, until he flung open the panes and fastened it. The soft,
wet snow, that had choked the window-panes all day, was frozen hard
now, and he had to break the polished crust before he could find the
rusty shutter hinge.

He leaned out for a moment, his numbed hands resting on the snow, the
roar of a rising snow-squall in his ears; and out across the desolate
garden and stark hedgerow he saw the flat black river spreading through
the gloom.

A candle sputtered and snapped behind him; a sheet of drawing-paper
fluttered across the floor, and he closed the panes and turned back
into the room, both hands in his worn pockets.

The little American clock on the mantel ticked and ticked, but the
hands lagged, for he had not been occupied five minutes in all. He went
up to the mantel and watched the hands of the clock. A minute--longer
than a year to him--crept by.

Around the room the furniture stood ranged--a chair or two of yellow
pine, a table, the easel, and in one corner the broad curtained bed;
and behind each lay shadows, menacing shadows that never moved.

A little pale flame started up from the smoking log on the andirons;
the room sang with the sudden hiss of escaping wood gases. After a
little the back of the log caught fire; jets of blue flared up here and
there with mellow sounds like the lighting of gas-burners in a row, and
in a moment a thin sheet of yellow flame wrapped the whole charred log.

Then the shadows moved; not the shadows behind the furniture--they
never moved--but other shadows, thin, gray, confusing, that came and
spread their slim patterns all around him, and trembled and trembled.

He dared not step or tread upon them, they were too real; they meshed
the floor around his feet, they ensnared his knees, they fell across
his breast like ropes. Some night, in the silence of the moors, when
wind and river were still, he feared these strands of shadow might
tighten--creep higher around his throat and tighten. But even then he
knew that those other shadows would never move, those gray shapes that
knelt crouching in every corner.

When he looked up at the clock again ten minutes had straggled past.
Time was disturbed in the room; the strands of shadow seemed entangled
among the hands of the clock, dragging them back from their rotation.
He wondered if the shadows would strangle Time, some still night when
the wind and the flat river were silent.

There grew a sudden chill across the floor; the cracks of the boards
let it in. He leaned down and drew his sabots toward him from their
place near the andirons, and slipped them over his chaussons; and as he
straightened up, his eyes mechanically sought the mantel above, where
in the dusk another pair of sabots stood, little, slender, delicate
sabots, carved from red beech. A year's dust grayed their surface; a
year's rust dulled the silver band across the instep. He said this to
himself aloud, knowing that it was within a few minutes of the year.

His own sabots came from Mort-Dieu; they were shaved square and banded
with steel. But in days past he had thought that no sabot in Mort-Dieu
was delicate enough to touch the instep of the Mort-Dieu passeur. So he
sent to the shore lighthouse, and they sent to Lorient, where the women
are coquettish and show their hair under the coiffe, and wear dainty
sabots; and in this town, where vanity corrupts and there is much lace
on coiffe and collarette, a pair of delicate sabots was found, banded
with silver and chiselled in red beech. The sabots stood on the mantel
above the fire now, dusty and tarnished.

There was a sound from the window, the soft murmur of snow blotting
glass panes. The wind, too, muttered under the roof eaves. Presently it
would begin to whisper to him from the chimney--he knew it--and he held
his hands over his ears and stared at the clock.

In the hamlet of Mort-Dieu the pines sing all day of the sea secrets,
but in the night the ghosts of little gray birds fill the branches,
singing of the sunshine of past years. He heard the song as he sat,
and he crushed his hands over his ears; but the gray birds joined with
the wind in the chimney, and he heard all that he dared not hear, and
he thought all that he dared not hope or think, and the swift tears
scalded his eyes.

In Mort-Dieu the nights are longer than anywhere on earth; he knew
it--why should he not know? This had been so for a year; it was
different before. There were so many things different before; days and
nights vanished like minutes then; the pines told no secrets of the
sea, and the gray birds had not yet come to Mort-Dieu. Also, there was
Jeanne, passeur at the Carmes.

When he first saw her she was poling the square, flat-bottomed ferry
skiff from the Carmes to Mort-Dieu, a red handkerchief bound across her
silky black hair, a red skirt fluttering just below her knees. The next
time he saw her he had to call to her across the placid river, "Ohé!
Ohé, passeur!" She came, poling the flat skiff, her deep blue eyes
fixed pensively on him, the scarlet skirt and kerchief idly flapping in
the April wind. Then day followed day when the far call "Passeur!" grew
clearer and more joyous, and the faint answering cry, "I come!" rippled
across the water like music tinged with laughter. Then spring came,
and with spring came love--love, carried free across the ferry from the
Carmes to Mort-Dieu.

The flame above the charred log whistled, flickered, and went out in
a jet of wood vapour, only to play like lightning above the gas and
relight again. The clock ticked more loudly, and the song from the
pines filled the room. But in his straining eyes a summer landscape was
reflected, where white clouds sailed and white foam curled under the
square bow of a little skiff. And he pressed his numbed hands tighter
to his ears to drown the cry, "Passeur! Passeur!"

And now for a moment the clock ceased ticking. It was time to go--who
but he should know it, he who went out into the night swinging his
lantern? And he went. He had gone each night from the first--from that
first strange winter evening when a strange voice had answered him
across the river, the voice of the new passeur. He had never heard
_her_ voice again.

So he passed down the windy wooden stairs, lantern hanging lighted in
his hand, and stepped out into the storm. Through sheets of drifting
snow, over heaps of frozen seaweed and icy drift he moved, shifting his
lantern right and left, until its glimmer on the water warned him. Then
he called out into the night, "Passeur!" The frozen spray spattered
his face and crusted the lantern; he heard the distant boom of breakers
beyond the bar, and the noise of mighty winds among the seaward cliffs.

"Passeur!"

Across the broad flat river, black as a sea of pitch, a tiny light
sparkled a moment. Again he cried, "Passeur!"

"I come!"

He turned ghastly white, for it was her voice--or was he crazy?--and
he sprang waist deep into the icy current and cried out again, but his
voice ended in a sob.

Slowly through the snow the flat skiff took shape, creeping nearer
and nearer. But she was not at the pole--he saw that; there was only a
tall, thin man, shrouded to the eyes in oilskin; and he leaped into the
boat and bade the ferryman hasten.

Halfway across he rose in the skiff, and called, "Jeanne!" But the roar
of the storm and the thrashing of icy waves drowned his voice. Yet he
heard her again, and she called to him by name.

When at last the boat grated upon the invisible shore, he lifted his
lantern, trembling, stumbling among the rocks, and calling to her, as
though his voice could silence the voice that had spoken a year ago
that night. And it could not. He sank shivering upon his knees, and
looked out into the darkness, where an ocean rolled across a world.
Then his stiff lips moved, and he repeated her name; but the hand of
the ferryman fell gently upon his head.

And when he raised his eyes he saw that the ferryman was Death.




THE KEY TO GRIEF.

  The moving finger writes, and, having writ,
    Moves on; nor all your piety nor wit
  Shall lure it back to cancel half a line,
    Nor all your tears wash out a word of it.

                                        FITZGERALD.




THE KEY TO GRIEF.

  The wild hawk to the wind-swept sky
    The deer to the wholesome wold,
  And the heart of a man to the heart of a maid,
    As it was in the days of old.

                                        KIPLING.


I.

They were doing their work very badly. They got the rope around his
neck, and tied his wrists with moose-bush withes, but again he fell,
sprawling, turning, twisting over the leaves, tearing up everything
around him like a trapped panther.

He got the rope away from them; he clung to it with bleeding fists; he
set his white teeth in it, until the jute strands relaxed, unravelled,
and snapped, gnawed through by his white teeth.

Twice Tully struck him with a gum hook. The dull blows fell on flesh
rigid as stone.

Panting, foul with forest mould and rotten leaves, hands and face
smeared with blood, he sat up on the ground, glaring at the circle of
men around him.

"Shoot him!" gasped Tully, dashing the sweat from his bronzed brow; and
Bates, breathing heavily, sat down on a log and dragged a revolver from
his rear pocket. The man on the ground watched him; there was froth in
the corners of his mouth.

"Git back!" whispered Bates, but his voice and hand trembled. "Kent,"
he stammered, "won't ye hang?"

The man on the ground glared.

"Ye've got to die, Kent," he urged; "they all say so. Ask Lefty
Sawyer; ask Dyce; ask Carrots.--He's got to swing fur it--ain't he,
Tully?--Kent, fur God's sake, swing fur these here gents!"

The man on the ground panted; his bright eyes never moved.

After a moment Tully sprang on him again. There was a flurry of leaves,
a crackle, a gasp and a grunt, then the thumping and thrashing of two
bodies writhing in the brush. Dyce and Carrots jumped on the prostrate
men. Lefty Sawyer caught the rope again, but the jute strands gave
way and he stumbled. Tully began to scream, "He's chokin' me!" Dyce
staggered out into the open, moaning over a broken wrist.

"Shoot!" shouted Lefty Sawyer, and dragged Tully aside. "Shoot, Jim
Bates! Shoot straight, b' God!"

"Git back!" gasped Bates, rising from the fallen log.

The crowd parted right and left; a quick report rang
out--another--another. Then from the whirl of smoke a tall form
staggered, dealing blows--blows that sounded sharp as the crack of a
whip.

"He's off! Shoot straight!" they cried.

There was a gallop of heavy boots in the woods. Bates, faint and dazed,
turned his head.

"Shoot!" shrieked Tully.

But Bates was sick; his smoking revolver fell to the ground; his white
face and pale eyes contracted. It lasted only a moment; he started
after the others, plunging, wallowing through thickets of osier and
hemlock underbrush.

Far ahead he heard Kent crashing on like a young moose in November,
and he knew he was making for the shore. The others knew too. Already
the gray gleam of the sea cut a straight line along the forest edge;
already the soft clash of the surf on the rocks broke faintly through
the forest silence.

"He's got a canoe there!" bawled Tully. "He'll be into it!"

And he was into it, kneeling in the bow, driving his paddle to the
handle. The rising sun gleamed like red lightning on the flashing
blade; the canoe shot to the crest of a wave, hung, bows dripping in
the wind, dropped into the depths, glided, tipped, rolled, shot up
again, staggered, and plunged on.

Tully ran straight out into the cove surf; the water broke against his
chest, bare and wet with sweat. Bates sat down on a worn black rock and
watched the canoe listlessly.

The canoe dwindled to a speck of gray and silver; and when Carrots, who
had run back to the gum camp for a rifle, returned, the speck on the
water might have been easier to hit than a loon's head at twilight. So
Carrots, being thrifty by nature, fired once, and was satisfied to save
the other cartridges. The canoe was still visible, making for the open
sea. Somewhere beyond the horizon lay the keys, a string of rocks bare
as skulls, black and slimy where the sea cut their base, white on the
crests with the excrement of sea birds.

"He's makin' fur the Key to Grief!" whispered Bates to Dyce.

Dyce, moaning, and nursing his broken wrist, turned a sick face out to
sea.

The last rock seaward was the Key to Grief, a splintered pinnacle
polished by the sea. From the Key to Grief, seaward a day's paddle, if
a man dared, lay the long wooded island in the ocean known as Grief on
the charts of the bleak coast.

In the history of the coast, two men had made the voyage to the Key to
Grief, and from there to the island. One of these was a rum-crazed pelt
hunter, who lived to come back; the other was a college youth; they
found his battered canoe at sea, and a day later his battered body was
flung up in the cove.

So, when Bates whispered to Dyce, and when Dyce called to the others,
they knew that the end was not far off for Kent and his canoe; and they
turned away into the forest, sullen, but satisfied that Kent would get
his dues when the devil got his.

Lefty spoke vaguely of the wages of sin. Carrots, with an eye to
thrift, suggested a plan for an equitable division of Kent's property.

When they reached the gum camp they piled Kent's personal effects on a
blanket.

Carrots took the inventory: a revolver, two gum hooks, a fur cap, a
nickel-plated watch, a pipe, a pack of new cards, a gum sack, forty
pounds of spruce gum, and a frying pan.

Carrots shuffled the cards, picked out the joker, and flipped it
pensively into the fire. Then he dealt cold decks all around.

When the goods and chattels of their late companion had been divided by
chance--for there was no chance to cheat--somebody remembered Tully.

"He's down there on the coast, starin' after the canoe," said Bates
huskily.

He rose and walked toward a heap on the ground covered by a blanket. He
started to lift the blanket, hesitated, and finally turned away. Under
the blanket lay Tully's brother, shot the night before by Kent.

"Guess we'd better wait till Tully comes," said Carrots uneasily. Bates
and Kent had been campmates. An hour later Tully walked into camp.

He spoke to no one that day. In the morning Bates found him down on
the coast digging, and said: "Hello, Tully! Guess we ain't much hell on
lynchin'!"

"Naw," said Tully. "Git a spade."

"Goin' to plant him there?"

"Yep."

"Where he kin hear them waves?"

"Yep."

"Purty spot."

"Yep."

"Which way will he face?"

"Where he kin watch fur that damned canoe!" cried Tully fiercely.

"He--he can't see," ventured Bates uneasily. "He's dead, ain't he?"

"He'll heave up that there sand when the canoe comes back! An' it's
a-comin'! An' Bud Kent'll be in it, dead or alive! Git a spade!"

The pale light of superstition flickered in Bates's eyes. He hesitated.

"The--the dead can't see," he began; "kin they?"

Tully turned a distorted face toward him.

"Yer lie!" he roared. "My brother kin see, dead or livin'! An' he'll
see the hangin' of Bud Kent! An' he'll git up outer the grave fur to
see it, Bill Bates! I'm tellin' ye! I'm tellin' ye! Deep as I'll plant
him, he'll heave that there sand and call to me, when the canoe comes
in! I'll hear him; I'll be here! An' we'll live to see the hangin' of
Bud Kent!"

About sundown they planted Tully's brother, face to the sea.


II.

On the Key to Grief the green waves rub all day. White at the summit,
black at the base, the shafted rocks rear splintered pinnacles,
slanting like channel buoys. On the polished pillars sea birds
brood--white-winged, bright-eyed sea birds, that nestle and preen and
flap and clatter their orange-coloured beaks when the sifted spray
drives and drifts across the reef.

As the sun rose, painting crimson streaks criss-cross over the waters,
the sea birds sidled together, huddling row on row, steeped in downy
drowse.

Where the sun of noon burnished the sea, an opal wave washed, listless,
noiseless; a sea bird stretched one listless wing.

And into the silence of the waters a canoe glided, bronzed by the
sunlight, jewelled by the salt drops stringing from prow to thwart,
seaweed a-trail in the diamond-flashing wake, and in the bow a man
dripping with sweat.

Up rose the gulls, sweeping in circles, turning, turning over rock and
sea, and their clamour filled the sky, starting little rippling echoes
among the rocks.

The canoe grated on a shelf of ebony; the seaweed rocked and washed;
the little sea crabs sheered sideways, down, down into limpid depths of
greenest shadows. Such was the coming of Bud Kent to the Key to Grief.

He drew the canoe halfway up the shelf of rock and sat down, breathing
heavily, one brown arm across the bow. For an hour he sat there. The
sweat dried under his eyes. The sea birds came back, filling the air
with soft querulous notes.

There was a livid mark around his neck, a red, raw circle. The salt
wind stung it; the sun burned it into his flesh like a collar of
red-hot steel. He touched it at times; once he washed it with cold salt
water.

Far in the north a curtain of mist hung on the sea, dense, motionless
as the fog on the Grand Banks. He never moved his eyes from it; he knew
what it was. Behind it lay the Island of Grief.

All the year round the Island of Grief is hidden by the banks of mist,
ramparts of dead white fog encircling it on every side. Ships give it
wide berth. Some speak of warm springs on the island whose waters flow
far out to sea, rising in steam eternally.

The pelt hunter had come back with tales of forests and deer and
flowers everywhere; but he had been drinking much, and much was
forgiven him.

The body of the college youth tossed up in the cove on the mainland
was battered out of recognition, but some said, when found, one hand
clutched a crimson blossom half wilted, but broad as a sap pan.

So Kent lay motionless beside his canoe, burned with thirst, every
nerve vibrating, thinking of all these things. It was not fear that
whitened the firm flesh under the tan; it was the fear of fear. He
must not think--he must throttle dread; his eyes must never falter, his
head never turn from that wall of mist across the sea. With set teeth
he crushed back terror; with glittering eyes he looked into the hollow
eyes of fright. And so he conquered fear.

He rose. The sea birds whirled up into the sky, pitching, tossing,
screaming, till the sharp flapping of their pinions set the snapping
echoes flying among the rocks.

Under the canoe's sharp prow the kelp bobbed and dipped and parted; the
sunlit waves ran out ahead, glittering, dancing. Splash! splash! bow
and stern! And now he knelt again, and the polished paddle swung and
dipped, and swept and swung and dipped again.

Far behind, the clamour of the sea birds lingered in his ears, till
the mellow dip of the paddle drowned all sound and the sea was a sea of
silence.

No wind came to cool the hot sweat on cheek and breast. The sun blazed
a path of flame before him, and he followed out into the waste of
waters. The still ocean divided under the bows and rippled innocently
away on either side, tinkling, foaming, sparkling like the current in
a woodland brook. He looked around at the world of flattened water, and
the fear of fear rose up and gripped his throat again. Then he lowered
his head, like a tortured bull, and shook the fear of fear from his
throat, and drove the paddle into the sea as a butcher stabs, to the
hilt.

So at last he came to the wall of mist. It was thin at first, thin and
cool, but it thickened and grew warmer, and the fear of fear dragged at
his head, but he would not look behind.

Into the fog the canoe shot; the gray water ran by, high as the
gunwales, oily, silent. Shapes flickered across the bows, pillars of
mist that rode the waters, robed in films of tattered shadows. Gigantic
forms towered to dizzy heights above him, shaking out shredded shrouds
of cloud. The vast draperies of the fog swayed and hung and trembled as
he brushed them; the white twilight deepened to a sombre gloom. And now
it grew thinner; the fog became a mist, and the mist a haze, and the
haze floated away and vanished into the blue of the heavens.

All around lay a sea of pearl and sapphire, lapping, lapping on a
silver shoal.

So he came to the Island of Grief.


III.

On the silver shoal the waves washed and washed, breaking like crushed
opals where the sands sang with the humming froth.

Troops of little shore birds, wading on the shoal, tossed their
sun-tipped wings and scuttled inland, where, dappled with shadow from
the fringing forest, the white beach of the island stretched.

The water all around was shallow, limpid as crystal, and he saw the
ribbed sand shining on the bottom, where purple seaweed floated, and
delicate sea creatures darted and swarmed and scattered again at the
dip of his paddle.

Like velvet rubbed on velvet the canoe brushed across the sand. He
staggered to his feet, stumbled out, dragged the canoe high up under
the trees, turned it bottom upward, and sank beside it, face downward
in the sand. Sleep came to drive away the fear of fear, but hunger,
thirst, and fever fought with sleep, and he dreamed--dreamed of a
rope that sawed his neck, of the fight in the woods, and the shots. He
dreamed, too, of the camp, of his forty pounds of spruce gum, of Tully,
and of Bates. He dreamed of the fire and the smoke-scorched kettle, of
the foul odour of musty bedding, of the greasy cards, and of his own
new pack, hoarded for weeks to please the others. All this he dreamed,
lying there face downward in the sand; but he did not dream of the face
of the dead.

The shadows of the leaves moved on his blonde head, crisp with clipped
curls. A butterfly flitted around him, alighting now on his legs,
now on the back of his bronzed hands. All the afternoon the bees hung
droning among the wildwood blossoms; the leaves above scarcely rustled;
the shore birds brooded along the water's edge; the thin tide, sleeping
on the sand, mirrored the sky.

Twilight paled the zenith; a breeze moved in the deeper woods; a star
glimmered, went out, glimmered again, faded, and glimmered.

Night came. A moth darted to and fro under the trees; a beetle hummed
around a heap of seaweed and fell scrambling in the sand. Somewhere
among the trees a sound had become distinct, the song of a little
brook, melodious, interminable. He heard it in his dream; it threaded
all his dreams like a needle of silver, and like a needle it pricked
him--pricked his dry throat and cracked lips. It could not awake him;
the cool night swathed him head and foot.

Toward dawn a bird woke up and piped. Other birds stirred, restless,
half awakened; a gull spread a cramped wing on the shore, preened its
feathers, scratched its tufted neck, and took two drowsy steps toward
the sea.

The sea breeze stirred out behind the mist bank; it raised the feathers
on the sleeping gulls; it set the leaves whispering. A twig snapped,
broke off, and fell. Kent stirred, sighed, trembled, and awoke.

The first thing he heard was the song of the brook, and he stumbled
straight into the woods. There it lay, a thin, deep stream in the gray
morning light, and he stretched himself beside it and laid his cheek
in it. A bird drank in the pool, too--a little fluffy bird, bright-eyed
and fearless.

His knees were firmer when at last he rose, heedless of the drops that
beaded lips and chin. With his knife he dug and scraped at some white
roots that hung half meshed in the bank of the brook, and when he had
cleaned them in the pool he ate them.

The sun stained the sky when he went down to the canoe, but the eternal
curtain of fog, far out at sea, hid it as yet from sight.

He lifted the canoe, bottom upwards, to his head, and, paddle and pole
in either hand, carried it into the forest.

After he had set it down he stood a moment, opening and shutting his
knife. Then he looked up into the trees. There were birds there, if
he could get at them. He looked at the brook. There were the prints of
his fingers in the sand; there, too, was the print of something else--a
deer's pointed hoof.

He had nothing but his knife. He opened it again and looked at it.

That day he dug for clams and ate them raw. He waded out into the
shallows, too, and jabbed at fish with his setting pole, but hit
nothing except a yellow crab.

Fire was what he wanted. He hacked and chipped at flinty-looking
pebbles, and scraped tinder from a stick of sun-dried driftwood. His
knuckles bled, but no fire came.

That night he heard deer in the woods, and could not sleep for
thinking, until the dawn came up behind the wall of mist, and he rose
with it to drink his fill at the brook and tear raw clams with his
white teeth. Again he fought for fire, craving it as he had never
craved water, but his knuckles bled, and the knife scraped on the flint
in vain.

His mind, perhaps, had suffered somewhat. The white beach seemed to
rise and fall like a white carpet on a gusty hearth. The birds, too,
that ran along the sand, seemed big and juicy, like partridges; and
he chased them, hurling shells and bits of driftwood at them till he
could scarcely keep his feet for the rising, plunging beach--or carpet,
whichever it was. That night the deer aroused him at intervals. He
heard them splashing and grunting and crackling along the brook. Once
he arose and stole after them, knife in hand, till a false step into
the brook awoke him to his folly, and he felt his way back to the
canoe, trembling.

Morning came, and again he drank at the brook, lying on the sand where
countless heart-shaped hoofs had passed leaving clean imprints; and
again he ripped the raw clams from their shells and swallowed them,
whimpering.

All day long the white beach rose and fell and heaved and flattened
under his bright dry eyes. He chased the shore birds at times, till the
unsteady beach tripped him up and he fell full length in the sand. Then
he would rise moaning, and creep into the shadow of the wood, and watch
the little song-birds in the branches, moaning, always moaning.

His hands, sticky with blood, hacked steel and flint together, but so
feebly that now even the cold sparks no longer came.

He began to fear the advancing night; he dreaded to hear the big warm
deer among the thickets. Fear clutched him suddenly, and he lowered his
head and set his teeth and shook fear from his throat again.

Then he started aimlessly into the woods, crowding past bushes,
scraping trees, treading on moss and twig and mouldy stump, his bruised
hands swinging, always swinging.

The sun set in the mist as he came out of the woods on to another
beach--a warm, soft beach, crimsoned by the glow in the evening clouds.

And on the sand at his feet lay a young girl asleep, swathed in the
silken garment of her own black hair, round limbed, brown, smooth as
the bloom on the tawny beach.

A gull flapped overhead, screaming. Her eyes, deeper than night,
unclosed. Then her lips parted in a cry, soft with sleep, "Ihó!"

She rose, rubbing her velvet eyes. "Ihó!" she cried in wonder; "Inâh!"

The gilded sand settled around her little feet. Her cheeks crimsoned.

"E-hó! E-hó!" she whispered, and hid her face in her hair.


IV.

The bridge of the stars spans the sky seas; the sun and the moon are
the travellers who pass over it. This was also known in the lodges of
the Isantee, hundreds of years ago. Chaské told it to Hârpam, and when
Hârpam knew he told it to Hapéda; and so the knowledge spread to Hârka,
and from Winona to Wehârka, up and down, across and ever across, woof
and web, until it came to the Island of Grief. And how? God knows!

Wehârka, prattling in the tules, may have told Ne-kâ; and Ne-kâ,
high in the November clouds, may have told Kay-óshk, who told it to
Shinge-bis, who told it to Skeé-skah, who told it to Sé-só-Kah.

Ihó! Inâh! Behold the wonder of it! And this is the fate of all
knowledge that comes to the Island of Grief.

       *       *       *       *       *

As the red glow died in the sky, and the sand swam in shadows, the girl
parted the silken curtains of her hair and looked at him.

"Ehó!" she whispered again in soft delight.

For now it was plain to her that he was the sun! He had crossed the
bridge of stars in the blue twilight; he had come!

"E-tó!"

She stepped nearer, shivering, faint with the ecstasy of this holy
miracle wrought before her.

He was the Sun! His blood streaked the sky at dawn; his blood stained
the clouds at even. In his eyes the blue of the sky still lingered,
smothering two blue stars; and his body was as white as the breast of
the Moon.

She opened both arms, hands timidly stretched, palm upward. Her face
was raised to his, her eyes slowly closed; the deep-fringed lids
trembled.

Like a young priestess she stood, motionless save for the sudden quiver
of a limb, a quick pulse-flutter in the rounded throat. And so she
worshipped, naked and unashamed, even after he, reeling, fell heavily
forward on his face; even when the evening breeze stealing over the
sands stirred the hair on his head, as winds stir the fur of a dead
animal in the dust.

       *       *       *       *       *

When the morning sun peered over the wall of mist, and she saw it was
the sun, and she saw him, flung on the sand at her feet, then she knew
that he was a man, only a man, pallid as death and smeared with blood.

And yet--miracle of miracles!--the divine wonder in her eyes deepened,
and her body seemed to swoon, and fall a-trembling, and swoon again.

For, although it was but a man who lay at her feet, it had been easier
for her to look upon a god.

He dreamed that he breathed fire--fire, that he craved as he had never
craved water. Mad with delirium, he knelt before the flames, rubbing
his torn hands, washing them in the crimson-scented flames. He had
water, too, cool scented water, that sprayed his burning flesh, that
washed in his eyes, his hair, his throat. After that came hunger,
a fierce rending agony, that scorched and clutched and tore at his
entrails; but that, too, died away, and he dreamed that he had eaten
and all his flesh was warm. Then he dreamed that he slept; and when he
slept he dreamed no more.

One day he awoke and found her stretched beside him, soft palms tightly
closed, smiling, asleep.


V.

Now the days began to run more swiftly than the tide along the tawny
beach; and the nights, star-dusted and blue, came and vanished and
returned, only to exhale at dawn like perfume from a violet.

They counted hours as they counted the golden bubbles, winking with
a million eyes along the foam-flecked shore; and the hours ended, and
began, and glimmered, iridescent, and ended as bubbles end in a tiny
rainbow haze.

There was still fire in the world; it flashed up at her touch and where
she chose. A bow strung with the silk of her own hair, an arrow winged
like a sea bird and tipped with shell, a line from the silver tendon of
a deer, a hook of polished bone--these were the mysteries he learned,
and learned them laughing, her silken head bent close to his.

The first night that the bow was wrought and the glossy string attuned,
she stole into the moonlit forest to the brook; and there they stood,
whispering, listening, and whispering, though neither understood the
voice they loved.

In the deeper woods, Kaug, the porcupine, scraped and snuffed. They
heard Wabóse, the rabbit, pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat, loping across dead
leaves in the moonlight. Skeé-skah, the wood-duck, sailed past,
noiseless, gorgeous as a floating blossom.

Out on the ocean's placid silver, Shinge-bis, the diver, shook the
scented silence with his idle laughter, till Kay-óshk, the gray gull,
stirred in his slumber. There came a sudden ripple in the stream, a
mellow splash, a soft sound on the sand.

"Ihó! Behold!"

"I see nothing."

The beloved voice was only a wordless melody to her.

"Ihó! Ta-hinca, the red deer! E-hó! The buck will follow!"

"Ta-hinca," he repeated, notching the arrow.

"E-tó! Ta-mdóka!"

So he drew the arrow to the head, and the gray gull feathers brushed
his ear, and the darkness hummed with the harmony of the singing
string.

Thus died Ta-mdóka, the buck deer of seven prongs.


VI.

As an apple tossed spinning into the air, so spun the world above the
hand that tossed it into space.

And one day in early spring, Sé-só-Kah, the robin, awoke at dawn, and
saw a girl at the foot of the blossoming tree holding a babe cradled in
the silken sheets of her hair.

At its feeble cry, Kaug, the porcupine, raised his quilled head.
Wabóse, the rabbit, sat still with palpitating sides. Kay-óshk, the
gray gull, tiptoed along the beach.

Kent knelt with one bronzed arm around them both.

"Ihó! Inâh!" whispered the girl, and held the babe up in the rosy
flames of dawn.

But Kent trembled as he looked, and his eyes filled. On the pale green
moss their shadows lay--three shadows. But the shadow of the babe was
white as froth.

Because it was the firstborn son, they named it Chaské; and the girl
sang as she cradled it there in the silken vestments of her hair; all
day long in the sunshine she sang:

    Wâ-wa, wâ-wa, wâ-we--yeá;
  Kah-wéen, nee-zhéka Ke-diaus-âi,
  Ke-gâh nau-wâi, ne-mé-go S'weén,
  Ne-bâun, ne-bâun, ne-dâun-is âis.
  E-we wâ-wa, wâ-we--yeá;
  E-we wâ-wa, wâ-we--yeá.

Out in the calm ocean, Shinge-bis, the diver, listened, preening his
satin breast in silence. In the forest, Ta-hinca, the red deer, turned
her delicate head to the wind.

That night Kent thought of the dead, for the first time since he had
come to the Key of Grief.

"Aké-u! aké-u!" chirped Sé-só-Kah, the robin. But the dead never come
again.

"Beloved, sit close to us," whispered the girl, watching his troubled
eyes. "Ma-cânte maséca."

But he looked at the babe and its white shadow on the moss, and he only
sighed: "Ma-cânte maséca, beloved! Death sits watching us across the
sea."

Now for the first time he knew more than the fear of fear; he knew
fear. And with fear came grief.

He never before knew that grief lay hidden there in the forest. Now he
knew it. Still, that happiness, eternally reborn when two small hands
reached up around his neck, when feeble fingers clutched his hand--that
happiness that Sé-só-Kah understood, chirping to his brooding
mate--that Ta-mdóka knew, licking his dappled fawns--that happiness
gave him heart to meet grief calmly, in dreams or in the forest depths,
and it helped him to look into the hollow eyes of fear.

He often thought of the camp now; of Bates, his blanket mate; of Dyce,
whose wrist he had broken with a blow; of Tully, whose brother he had
shot. He even seemed to hear the shot, the sudden report among the
hemlocks; again he saw the haze of smoke, he caught a glimpse of a tall
form falling through the bushes.

He remembered every minute incident of the trial: Bates's hand laid
on his shoulder; Tully, red-bearded and wild-eyed, demanding his
death; while Dyce spat and spat and smoked and kicked at the blackened
log-ends projecting from the fire. He remembered, too, the verdict, and
Tully's terrible laugh; and the new jute rope that they stripped off
the market-sealed gum packs.

He thought of these things, sometimes wading out on the shoals,
shell-tipped fish spear poised: at such times he would miss his fish.
He thought of it sometimes when he knelt by the forest stream listening
for Ta-hinca's splash among the cresses: at such moments the feathered
shaft whistled far from the mark, and Ta-mdóka stamped and snorted
till even the white fisher, stretched on a rotting log, flattened his
whiskers and stole away into the forest's blackest depths.

When the child was a year old, hour for hour notched at sunset and
sunrise, it prattled with the birds, and called to Ne-Kâ, the wild
goose, who called again to the child from the sky: "Northward!
northward, beloved!"

When winter came--there is no frost on the Island of Grief--Ne-Kâ, the
wild goose, passing high in the clouds, called: "Southward! southward,
beloved!" And the child answered in a soft whisper of an unknown
tongue, till the mother shivered, and covered it with her silken hair.

"O beloved!" said the girl, "Chaské calls to all things living--to
Kaug, the porcupine, to Wabóse, to Kay-óshk, the gray gull--he calls,
and they understand."

Kent bent and looked into her eyes.

"Hush, beloved; it is not _that_ I fear."

"Then what, beloved?"

"His shadow. It is white as surf foam. And at night--I--I have seen----"

"Oh, what?"

"The air about him aglow like a pale rose."

"Ma cânté maséca. The earth alone lasts. I speak as one dying--I know,
O beloved!"

Her voice died away like a summer wind.

"Beloved!" he cried.

But there before him she was changing; the air grew misty, and her hair
wavered like shreds of fog, and her slender form swayed, and faded, and
swerved, like the mist above a pond.

In her arms the babe was a figure of mist, rosy, vague as a breath on
a mirror.

"The earth alone lasts. Inâh! It is the end, O beloved!"

The words came from the mist--a mist as formless as the ether--a mist
that drove in and crowded him, that came from the sea, from the clouds,
from the earth at his feet. Faint with terror, he staggered forward
calling, "Beloved! And thou, Chaské, O beloved! Aké u! Aké u!"

Far out at sea a rosy star glimmered an instant in the mist and went
out.

A sea bird screamed, soaring over the waste of fog-smothered waters.
Again he saw the rosy star; it came nearer; its reflection glimmered in
the water.

"Chaské!" he cried.

He heard a voice, dull in the choking mist.

"O beloved, I am here!" he called again.

There was a sound on the shoal, a flicker in the fog, the flare of a
torch, a face white, livid, terrible--the face of the dead.

He fell upon his knees; he closed his eyes and opened them. Tully stood
beside him with a coil of rope.

       *       *       *       *       *

Ihó! Behold the end! The earth alone lasts. The sand, the opal wave on
the golden beach, the sea of sapphire, the dusted starlight, the wind,
and love, shall die. Death also shall die, and lie on the shores of
the skies like the bleached skull there on the Key to Grief, polished,
empty, with its teeth embedded in the sand.




A MATTER OF INTEREST.




A MATTER OF INTEREST.

  He that knows not, and knows not that he knows not, is a fool. Shun
      him.
  He that knows not, and knows that he knows not, is simple. Teach him.
  He that knows, and knows not that he knows, is asleep. Wake him.
  He that knows, and knows that he knows, is wise. Follow him.

                                       _Arabian Proverb._


I.

Much as I dislike it, I am obliged to include this story in a volume
devoted to fiction: I have attempted to tell it as an absolutely true
story, but until three months ago, when the indisputable proofs were
placed before the British Association by Professor James Holroyd,
I was regarded as an impostor. Now that the Smithsonian Institute
in Washington, the Philadelphia Zoölogical Society, and the Natural
History Museum of New York city, are convinced that the story is
truthful and accurate in every particular, I prefer to tell it my own
way. Professor Holroyd urges me to do this, although Professor Bruce
Stoddard, of Columbia College, is now at work upon a pamphlet, to be
published the latter part of next month, describing scientifically the
extraordinary discovery which, to the shame of the United States, was
first accepted and recognised in England.

Now, having no technical ability concerning the affair in question,
and having no knowledge of either comparative anatomy or zoölogy, I
am perhaps unfitted to tell this story. But the story is true; the
episode occurred under my own eyes--here, within a few hours' sail of
the Battery. And as I was one of the first persons to verify what has
long been a theory among scientists, and, moreover, as the result of
Professor Holroyd's discovery is to be placed on exhibition in Madison
Square Garden on the twentieth of next month, I have decided to tell,
as simply as I am able, exactly what occurred.

I first wrote out the story on April 1, 1896. The North American
Review, the Popular Science Monthly, the Scientific American, Nature,
Forest and Stream, and the Fossiliferous Magazine in turn rejected it;
some curtly informing me that fiction had no place in their columns.
When I attempted to explain that it was not fiction, the editors of
these periodicals either maintained a contemptuous silence, or bluntly
notified me that my literary services and opinions were not desired.
But finally, when several publishers offered to take the story as
fiction, I cut short all negotiations and decided to publish it myself.
Where I am known at all, it is my misfortune to be known as a writer
of fiction. This makes it impossible for me to receive a hearing from a
scientific audience. I regret it bitterly, because now, when it is too
late, I am prepared to prove certain scientific matters of interest,
and to produce the proofs. In this case, however, I am fortunate, for
nobody can dispute the existence of a thing when the bodily proof is
exhibited as evidence.

This is the story; and if I write it as I write fiction, it is because
I do not know how to write it otherwise.

I was walking along the beach below Pine Inlet, on the south shore
of Long Island. The railroad and telegraph station is at West Oyster
Bay. Everybody who has travelled on the Long Island Railroad knows the
station, but few, perhaps, know Pine Inlet. Duck shooters, of course,
are familiar with it; but as there are no hotels there, and nothing
to see except salt meadow, salt creek, and a strip of dune and sand,
the summer-squatting public may probably be unaware of its existence.
The local name for the place is Pine Inlet; the maps give its name as
Sand Point, I believe, but anybody at West Oyster Bay can direct you
to it. Captain McPeek, who keeps the West Oyster Bay House, drives duck
shooters there in winter. It lies five miles southeast from West Oyster
Bay.

I had walked over that afternoon from Captain McPeek's. There was a
reason for my going to Pine Inlet--it embarrasses me to explain it,
but the truth is I meditated writing an ode to the ocean. It was out
of the question to write it in West Oyster Bay, with the whistle of
locomotives in my ears. I knew that Pine Inlet was one of the loneliest
places on the Atlantic coast; it is out of sight of everything except
leagues of gray ocean. Rarely one might make out fishing smacks
drifting across the horizon. Summer squatters never visited it;
sportsmen shunned it, except in winter. Therefore, as I was about to do
a bit of poetry, I thought that Pine Inlet was the spot for the deed.
So I went there.

As I was strolling along the beach, biting my pencil reflectively,
tremendously impressed by the solitude and the solemn thunder of
the surf, a thought occurred to me: how unpleasant it would be if I
suddenly stumbled on a summer boarder. As this joyless impossibility
flitted across my mind, I rounded a bleak sand dune.

A summer girl stood directly in my path.

If I jumped, I think the young lady has pardoned me by this time. She
ought to, because she also started, and said something in a very faint
voice. What she said was "Oh!"

She stared at me as though I had just crawled up out of the sea to bite
her. I don't know what my own expression resembled, but I have been
given to understand it was idiotic.

Now I perceived, after a few moments, that the young lady was
frightened, and I knew I ought to say something civil. So I said, "Are
there any mosquitoes here?"

"No," she replied, with a slight quiver in her voice; "I have only seen
one, and it was biting somebody else."

I looked foolish; the conversation seemed so futile, and the young
lady appeared to be more nervous than before. I had an impulse to say,
"Do not run; I have breakfasted," for she seemed to be meditating a
plunge into the breakers. What I did say was: "I did not know anybody
was here. I do not intend to intrude. I come from Captain McPeek's,
and I am writing an ode to the ocean." After I had said this it seemed
to ring in my ears like, "I come from Table Mountain, and my name is
Truthful James."

I glanced timidly at her.

"She's thinking of the same thing," said I to myself. "What an ass I
must appear!"

However, the young lady seemed to be a trifle reassured. I noticed she
drew a sigh of relief and looked at my shoes. She looked so long that
it made me suspicious, and I also examined my shoes. They seemed to be
fairly respectable.

"I--I am sorry," she said, "but would you mind not walking on the
beach?"

This was sudden. I had intended to retire and leave the beach to her,
but I did not fancy being driven away so abruptly.

"I was about to withdraw, madam," said I, bowing stiffly; "I beg you
will pardon any inconvenience----"

"Dear me!" she cried, "you don't understand. I do not--I would
not think for a moment of asking you to leave Pine Inlet. I merely
ventured to request you to walk on the dunes. I am so afraid that your
footprints may obliterate the impressions that my father is studying."

"Oh!" said I, looking about me as though I had been caught in the
middle of a flower-bed; "really I did not notice any impressions.
Impressions of what--if I may be permitted?"

"I don't know," she said, smiling a little at my awkward pose. "If you
step this way in a straight line you can do no damage."

I did as she bade me. I suppose my movements resembled the gait of
a wet peacock. Possibly they recalled the delicate manœuvres of the
kangaroo. Anyway, she laughed.

This seriously annoyed me. I had been at a disadvantage; I walk well
enough when let alone.

"You can scarcely expect," said I, "that a man absorbed in his own
ideas could notice impressions on the sand. I trust I have obliterated
nothing."

As I said this I looked back at the long line of footprints stretching
away in prospective across the sand. They were my own. How large they
looked! Was that what she was laughing at?

"I wish to explain," she said gravely, looking at the point of her
parasol. "I am very sorry to be obliged to warn you--to ask you to
forego the pleasure of strolling on a beach that does not belong to me.
Perhaps," she continued, in sudden alarm, "perhaps this beach belongs
to you?"

"The beach? Oh, no," I said.

"But--but you were going to write poems about it?"

"Only one--and that does not necessitate owning the beach. I have
observed," said I frankly, "that the people who own nothing write many
poems about it."

She looked at me seriously.

"I write many poems," I added.

She laughed doubtfully.

"Would you rather I went away?" I asked politely.

"I? Why, no--I mean that you may do as you please--except please do not
walk on the _beach_."

"Then I do not alarm you by my presence?" I inquired. My clothes
were a bit ancient. I wore them shooting, sometimes. "My family is
respectable," I added; and I told her my name.

"Oh! Then you wrote 'Culled Cowslips' and 'Faded Fig-Leaves,' and
you imitate Maeterlinck, and you---- Oh, I know lots of people that
you know;" she cried with every symptom of relief; "and you know my
brother."

"I am the author," said I coldly, "of 'Culled Cowslips,' but 'Faded
Fig-Leaves' was an earlier work, which I no longer recognise, and I
should be grateful to you if you would be kind enough to deny that I
ever imitated Maeterlinck. Possibly," I added, "he imitates me."

"Now, do you know," she said, "I was afraid of you at first? Papa is
digging in the salt meadows nearly a mile away."

It was hard to bear.

"Can you not see," said I, "that I am wearing a shooting coat?"

"I do see--now; but it is so--so old," she pleaded.

"It is a shooting coat all the same," I said bitterly.

She was very quiet, and I saw she was sorry.

"Never mind," I said magnanimously, "you probably are not familiar with
sporting goods. If I knew your name I should ask permission to present
myself."

"Why, I am Daisy Holroyd," she said.

"What! Jack Holroyd's little sister?"

"Little!" she cried.

"I didn't mean that," said I. "You know that your brother and I were
great friends in Paris----"

"I know," she said significantly.

"Ahem! Of course," I said, "Jack and I were inseparable----"

"Except when shut in separate cells," said Miss Holroyd coldly.

This unfeeling allusion to the unfortunate termination of a
Latin-Quarter celebration hurt me.

"The police," said I, "were too officious."

"So Jack says," replied Miss Holroyd demurely.

We had unconsciously moved on along the sand hills, side by side, as we
spoke.

"To think," I repeated, "that I should meet Jack's little----"

"Please," she said, "you are only three years my senior."

She opened the sunshade and tipped it over one shoulder. It was white,
and had spots and posies on it.

"Jack sends us every new book you write," she observed. "I do not
approve of some things you write."

"Modern school," I mumbled.

"That is no excuse," she said severely; "Anthony Trollope didn't do it."

The foam spume from the breakers was drifting across the dunes, and the
little tip-up snipe ran along the beach and teetered and whistled and
spread their white-barred wings for a low, straight flight across the
shingle, only to tip and skeep and sail on again. The salt sea wind
whistled and curled through the crested waves, blowing in perfumed
puffs across thickets of sweet bay and cedar. As we passed through the
crackling juicy-stemmed marsh weed myriads of fiddler crabs raised
their fore-claws in warning and backed away, rustling, through the
reeds, aggressive, protesting.

"Like millions of pigmy Ajaxes defying the lightning," I said.

Miss Holroyd laughed.

"Now I never imagined that authors were clever except in print," she
said.

She was a most extraordinary girl.

"I suppose," she observed after a moment's silence--"I suppose I am
taking you to my father."

"Delighted!" I mumbled. "H'm! I had the honour of meeting Professor
Holroyd in Paris."

"Yes; he bailed you and Jack out," said Miss Holroyd serenely.

The silence was too painful to last.

"Captain McPeek is an interesting man," I said. I spoke more loudly
than I intended; I may have been nervous.

"Yes," said Daisy Holroyd, "but he has a most singular hotel clerk."

"You mean Mr. Frisby?"

"I do."

"Yes," I admitted, "Mr. Frisby is queer. He was once a bill-poster."

"I know it!" exclaimed Daisy Holroyd, with some heat. "He ruins
landscapes whenever he has an opportunity. Do you know that he has a
passion for bill-posting? He has; he posts bills for the pure pleasure
of it, just as you play golf, or tennis, or billiards."

"But he's a hotel clerk now," I said; "nobody employs him to post
bills."

"I know it! He does it all by himself for the pure pleasure of it. Papa
has engaged him to come down here for two weeks, and I dread it," said
the girl.

What Professor Holroyd might want of Frisby I had not the faintest
notion. I suppose Miss Holroyd noticed the bewilderment in my face, for
she laughed, and nodded her head twice.

"Not only Mr. Frisby, but Captain McPeek also," she said.

"You don't mean to say that Captain McPeek is going to close his
hotel!" I exclaimed.

My trunk was there. It contained guarantees of my respectability.

"Oh, no; his wife will keep it open," replied the girl. "Look! you can
see papa now. He's digging."

"Where?" I blurted out.

I remembered Professor Holroyd as a prim, spectacled gentleman, with
close-cut, snowy beard and a clerical allure. The man I saw digging
wore green goggles, a jersey, a battered sou'wester, and hip-boots
of rubber. He was delving in the muck of the salt meadow, his face
streaming with perspiration, his boots and jersey splashed with
unpleasant-looking mud. He glanced up as we approached, shading his
eyes with a sunburnt hand.

"Papa, dear," said Miss Holroyd, "here is Jack's friend, whom you
bailed out of Mazas."

The introduction was startling. I turned crimson with mortification.
The professor was very decent about it; he called me by name at once.

When he said this he looked at his spade. It was clear that he
considered me a nuisance and wished to go on with his digging.

"I suppose," he said, "you are still writing?"

"A little," I replied, trying not to speak sarcastically. My output had
rivaled that of "The Duchess"--in quantity, I mean.

"I seldom read--fiction," he said, looking restlessly at the hole in
the ground.

Miss Holroyd came to my rescue.

"That was a charming story you wrote last," she said. "Papa should read
it--you should, papa; it's all about a fossil."

We both looked narrowly at Miss Holroyd. Her smile was guileless.

"Fossils!" repeated the professor. "Do you care for fossils?"

"Very much," said I.

Now I am not perfectly sure what my object was in lying. I looked at
Daisy Holroyd's dark-fringed eyes. They were very grave.

"Fossils," said I, "are my hobby."

I think Miss Holroyd winced a little at this. I did not care. I went on:

"I have seldom had the opportunity to study the subject, but, as a boy,
I collected flint arrow-heads----"

"Flint arrow-heads!" said the professor coldly.

"Yes; they were the nearest things to fossils obtainable," I replied,
marvelling at my own mendacity.

The professor looked into the hole. I also looked. I could see nothing
in it. "He's digging for fossils," thought I to myself.

"Perhaps," said the professor cautiously, "you might wish to aid me
in a little research--that is to say, if you have an inclination for
fossils." The double-entendre was not lost upon me.

"I have read all your books so eagerly," said I, "that to join you,
to be of service to you in any research, however difficult and trying,
would be an honour and a privilege that I never dared to hope for."

"That," thought I to myself, "will do its own work."

But the professor was still suspicious. How could he help it, when
he remembered Jack's escapades, in which my name was always blended!
Doubtless he was satisfied that my influence on Jack was evil. The
contrary was the case, too.

"Fossils," he said, worrying the edges of the excavation with his
spade, "fossils are not things to be lightly considered."

"No, indeed!" I protested.

"Fossils are the most interesting as well as puzzling things in the
world," said he.

"They are!" I cried enthusiastically.

"But I am not looking for fossils," observed the professor mildly.

This was a facer. I looked at Daisy Holroyd. She bit her lip and fixed
her eyes on the sea. Her eyes were wonderful eyes.

"Did you think I was digging for fossils in a salt meadow?" queried
the professor. "You can have read very little about the subject. I am
digging for something quite different."

I was silent. I knew that my face was a trifle flushed. I longed to
say, "Well, what the devil are you digging for?" but I only stared into
the hole as though hypnotized.

"Captain McPeek and Frisby ought to be here," he said, looking first at
Daisy and then across the meadows.

I ached to ask him why he had subpœnaed Captain McPeek and Frisby.

"They are coming," said Daisy, shading her eyes. "Do you see the speck
on the meadows?"

"It may be a mud hen," said the professor.

"Miss Holroyd is right," I said. "A wagon and team and two men are
coming from the north. There is a dog beside the wagon--it's that
miserable yellow dog of Frisby's."

"Good gracious!" cried the professor, "you don't mean to tell me that
you see all that at such a distance?"

"Why not?" I said.

"I see nothing," he insisted.

"You will see that I'm right, presently," I laughed.

The professor removed his blue goggles and rubbed them, glancing
obliquely at me.

"Haven't you heard what extraordinary eyesight duck shooters have?"
said his daughter, looking back at her father. "Jack says that they can
tell exactly what kind of a duck is flying before most people could see
anything at all in the sky."

"It's true," I said; "it comes to anybody, I fancy, who has had
practice."

The professor regarded me with a new interest. There was inspiration in
his eyes. He turned toward the ocean. For a long time he stared at the
tossing waves on the beach, then he looked far out to where the horizon
met the sea.

"Are there any ducks out there?" he asked at last.

"Yes," said I, scanning the sea, "there are."

He produced a pair of binoculars from his coat-tail pocket, adjusted
them, and raised them to his eyes.

"H'm! What sort of ducks?"

I looked more carefully, holding both hands over my forehead.

"Surf ducks--scoters and widgeon. There is one bufflehead among
them--no, two; the rest are coots," I replied.

"This," cried the professor, "is most astonishing. I have good eyes,
but I can't see a blessed thing without these binoculars!"

"It's not extraordinary," said I; "the surf ducks and coots any novice
might recognise; the widgeon and buffleheads I should not have been
able to name unless they had risen from the water. It is easy to tell
any duck when it is flying, even though it looks no bigger than a black
pin-point."

But the professor insisted that it was marvellous, and he said that I
might render him invaluable service if I would consent to come and camp
at Pine Inlet for a few weeks.

I looked at his daughter, but she turned her back--not exactly in
disdain either. Her back was beautifully moulded. Her gown fitted also.

"Camp out here?" I repeated, pretending to be unpleasantly surprised.

"I do not think he would care to," said Miss Holroyd without turning.

I had not expected that.

"Above all things," said I, in a clear, pleasant voice, "I like to camp
out."

She said nothing.

"It is not exactly camping," said the professor. "Come, you shall see
our conservatory. Daisy, come, dear! you must put on a heavier frock;
it is getting toward sundown."

At that moment, over a near dune, two horses' heads appeared, followed
by two human heads, then a wagon, then a yellow dog.

I turned triumphantly to the professor.

"You are the very man I want," he muttered; "the very man--the very
man."

I looked at Daisy Holroyd. She returned my glance with a defiant little
smile.

"Waal," said Captain McPeek, driving up, "here we be! Git out, Frisby."

Frisby, fat, nervous, and sentimental, hopped out of the cart.

"Come!" said the professor, impatiently moving across the dunes. I
walked with Daisy Holroyd. McPeek and Frisby followed. The yellow dog
walked by himself.


II.

The sun was dipping into the sea as we trudged across the meadows
toward a high dome-shaped dune covered with cedars and thickets of
sweet bay. I saw no sign of habitation among the sand hills. Far as the
eye could reach, nothing broke the gray line of sea and sky save the
squat dunes crowned with stunted cedars.

Then, as we rounded the base of the dune, we almost walked into the
door of a house. My amazement amused Miss Holroyd, and I noticed also
a touch of malice in her pretty eyes. But she said nothing, following
her father into the house, with the slightest possible gesture to me.
Was it invitation, or was it menace?

The house was merely a light wooden frame, covered with some waterproof
stuff that looked like a mixture of rubber and tar. Over this--in
fact, over the whole roof--was pitched an awning of heavy sail-cloth.
I noticed that the house was anchored to the sand by chains, already
rusted red. But this one-storied house was not the only building
nestling in the south shelter of the big dune. A hundred feet away
stood another structure--long, low, also built of wood. It had rows on
rows of round portholes on every side. The ports were fitted with heavy
glass, hinged to swing open if necessary. A single big double door
occupied the front.

Behind this long, low building was still another, a mere shed. Smoke
rose from the sheet-iron chimney. There was somebody moving about
inside the open door.

As I stood gaping at this mushroom hamlet the professor appeared at the
door and asked me to enter. I stepped in at once.

The house was much larger than I had imagined. A straight hallway ran
through the centre from east to west. On either side of this hallway
were rooms, the doors swinging wide open. I counted three doors on each
side; the three on the south appeared to be bedrooms.

The professor ushered me into a room on the north side, where I found
Captain McPeek and Frisby sitting at a table, upon which were drawings
and sketches of articulated animals and fishes.

"You see, McPeek," said the professor, "we only wanted one more man,
and I think I've got him.--Haven't I?" turning eagerly to me.

"Why, yes," I said, laughing; "this is delightful. Am I invited to stay
here?"

"Your bedroom is the third on the south side; everything is ready.
McPeek, you can bring his trunk to-morrow, can't you?" demanded the
professor.

The red-faced captain nodded, and shifted a quid.

"Then it's all settled," said the professor, and he drew a sigh of
satisfaction. "You see," he said, turning to me, "I was at my wit's end
to know whom to trust. I never thought of you. Jack's out in China, and
I didn't dare trust anybody in my own profession. All you care about is
writing verses and stories, isn't it?"

"I like to shoot," I replied mildly.

"Just the thing!" he cried, beaming at us all in turn. "Now I can see
no reason why we should not progress rapidly. McPeek, you and Frisby
must get those boxes up here before dark. Dinner will be ready before
you have finished unloading. Dick, you will wish to go to your room
first."

My name isn't Dick, but he spoke so kindly, and beamed upon me in such
a fatherly manner, that I let it go. I had occasion to correct him
afterward, several times, but he always forgot the next minute. He
calls me Dick to this day.

It was dark when Professor Holroyd, his daughter, and I sat down to
dinner. The room was the same in which I had noticed the drawings of
beast and bird, but the round table had been extended into an oval, and
neatly spread with dainty linen and silver.

A fresh-cheeked Swedish girl appeared from a further room, bearing the
soup. The professor ladled it out, still beaming.

"Now, this is very delightful!--isn't it, Daisy?" he said.

"Very," said Miss Holroyd, with the faintest tinge of irony.

"Very," I repeated heartily; but I looked at my soup when I said it.

"I suppose," said the professor, nodding mysteriously at his daughter,
"that Dick knows nothing of what we're about down here?"

"I suppose," said Miss Holroyd, "that he thinks we are digging for
fossils."

I looked at my plate. She might have spared me that.

"Well, well," said her father, smiling to himself, "he shall know
everything by morning. You'll be astonished, Dick, my boy."

"His name isn't Dick," corrected Daisy.

The professor said, "Isn't it?" in an absent-minded way, and relapsed
into contemplation of my necktie.

I asked Miss Holroyd a few questions about Jack, and was informed that
he had given up law and entered the diplomatic service--as what, I did
not dare ask, for I know what our diplomatic service is.

"In China," said Daisy.

"Choo Choo is the name of the city," added her father proudly; "it's
the terminus of the new trans-Siberian railway."

"It's on the Yellow River," said Daisy.

"He's vice-consul," added the professor triumphantly.

"He'll make a good one," I observed. I knew Jack. I pitied his consul.

So we chatted on about my old playmate, until Freda, the red-cheeked
maid, brought coffee, and the professor lighted a cigar, with a little
bow to his daughter.

"Of course, you don't smoke," she said to me, with a glimmer of malice
in her eyes.

"He mustn't," interposed the professor hastily; "it will make his hand
tremble."

"No, it doesn't," said I, laughing; "but my hand will shake if I don't
smoke. Are you going to employ me as a draughtsman?"

"You'll know to-morrow," he chuckled, with a mysterious smile at his
daughter.--"Daisy, give him my best cigars; put the box here on the
table. We can't afford to have his hand tremble."

Miss Holroyd rose, and crossed the hallway to her father's room,
returning presently with a box of promising-looking cigars.

"I don't think he knows what is good for him," she said. "He should
smoke only one every day."

It was hard to bear. I am not vindictive, but I decided to treasure up
a few of Miss Holroyd's gentle taunts. My intimacy with her brother was
certainly a disadvantage to me now. Jack had apparently been talking
too much, and his sister appeared to be thoroughly acquainted with my
past. It was a disadvantage. I remembered her vaguely as a girl with
long braids, who used to come on Sundays with her father and take tea
with us in our rooms. Then she went to Germany to school, and Jack and
I employed our Sunday evenings otherwise. It is true that I regarded
her weekly visits as a species of infliction, but I did not think I
ever showed it.

"It is strange," said I, "that you did not recognise me at once, Miss
Holroyd. Have I changed so greatly in five years?"

"You wore a pointed French beard in Paris," she said--"a very downy
one. And you never stayed to tea but twice, and then you only spoke
once."

"Oh!" said I blankly. "What did I say?"

"You asked me if I liked plums," said Daisy, bursting into an
irresistible ripple of laughter.

I saw that I must have made the same sort of an ass of myself that most
boys of eighteen do.

It was too bad. I never thought about the future in those days. Who
could have imagined that little Daisy Holroyd would have grown up
into this bewildering young lady? It was really too bad. Presently the
professor retired to his room, carrying with him an armful of drawings,
and bidding us not to sit up late. When he closed his door Miss Holroyd
turned to me.

"Papa will work over those drawings until midnight," she said, with a
despairing smile.

"It isn't good for him," I said. "What are the drawings?"

"You may know to-morrow," she answered, leaning forward on the table
and shading her face with one hand. "Tell me about yourself and Jack in
Paris."

I looked at her suspiciously.

"What! There isn't much to tell. We studied. Jack went to the law
school, and I attended--er--oh, all sorts of schools."

"Did you? Surely you gave yourself a little recreation occasionally?"

"Occasionally," I nodded.

"I am afraid you and Jack studied too hard."

"That may be," said I, looking meek.

"Especially about fossils."

I couldn't stand that.

"Miss Holroyd," I said, "I do care for fossils. You may think that I am
a humbug, but I have a perfect mania for fossils--now."

"Since when?"

"About an hour ago," I said airily. Out of the corner of my eye I saw
that she had flushed up. It pleased me.

"You will soon tire of the experiment," she said with a dangerous smile.

"Oh, I may," I replied indifferently.

She drew back. The movement was scarcely perceptible, but I noticed it,
and she knew I did.

The atmosphere was vaguely hostile. One feels such mental conditions
and changes instantly. I picked up a chessboard, opened it, set up the
pieces with elaborate care, and began to move, first the white, then
the black. Miss Holroyd watched me coldly at first, but after a dozen
moves she became interested and leaned a shade nearer. I moved a black
pawn forward.

"Why do you do that?" said Daisy.

"Because," said I, "the white queen threatens the pawn."

"It was an aggressive move," she insisted.

"Purely defensive," I said. "If her white highness will let the pawn
alone, the pawn will let the queen alone."

Miss Holroyd rested her chin on her wrist and gazed steadily at the
board. She was flushing furiously, but she held her ground.

"If the white queen doesn't block that pawn, the pawn may become
dangerous," she said coldly.

I laughed, and closed up the board with a snap.

"True," I said, "it might even take the queen." After a moment's
silence I asked, "What would you do in that case, Miss Holroyd?"

"I should resign," she said serenely; then realizing what she had said,
she lost her self-possession for a second, and cried: "No, indeed! I
should fight to the bitter end! I mean----"

"What?" I asked, lingering over my revenge.

"I mean," she said slowly, "that your black pawn would never have the
chance--never! I should take it immediately."

"I believe you would," said I, smiling; "so we'll call the game yours,
and--the pawn captured."

"I don't want it," she exclaimed. "A pawn is worthless."

"Except when it's in the king row."

"Chess is most interesting," she observed sedately. She had completely
recovered her self-control. Still I saw that she now had a certain
respect for my defensive powers. It was very soothing to me.

"You know," said I gravely, "that I am fonder of Jack than of anybody.
That's the reason we never write each other, except to borrow things. I
am afraid that when I was a young cub in France I was not an attractive
personality."

"On the contrary," said Daisy, smiling, "I thought you were very big
and very perfect. I had illusions. I wept often when I went home and
remembered that you never took the trouble to speak to me but once."

"I was a cub," I said; "not selfish and brutal, but I didn't understand
schoolgirls. I never had any sisters, and I didn't know what to say to
very young girls. If I had imagined that you felt hurt----"

"Oh, I did--five years ago. Afterward I laughed at the whole thing."

"Laughed?" I repeated, vaguely disappointed.

"Why, of course. I was very easily hurt when I was a child. I think I
have outgrown it."

The soft curve of her sensitive mouth contradicted her.

"Will you forgive me now?" I asked.

"Yes. I had forgotten the whole thing until I met you an hour or so
ago."

There was something that had a ring not entirely genuine in this
speech. I noticed it, but forgot it the next moment.

"Tiger cubs have stripes," said I. "Selfishness blossoms in the cradle,
and prophecy is not difficult. I hope I am not more selfish than my
brothers."

"I hope not," she said, smiling.

Presently she rose, touched her hair with the tip of one finger, and
walked to the door.

"Good-night," she said, courtesying very low.

"Good-night," said I, opening the door for her to pass.


III.

The sea was a sheet of silver, tinged with pink. The tremendous arch of
the sky was all shimmering and glimmering with the promise of the sun.
Already the mist above, flecked with clustered clouds, flushed with
rose colour and dull gold. I heard the low splash of the waves breaking
and curling across the beach. A wandering breeze, fresh and fragrant,
blew the curtains of my window. There was the scent of sweet bay in the
room, and everywhere the subtile, nameless perfume of the sea.

When at last I stood upon the shore, the air and sea were all aglimmer
in a rosy light, deepening to crimson in the zenith. Along the beach I
saw a little cove, shelving and all ashine, where shallow waves washed
with a mellow sound. Fine as dusted gold the shingle glowed, and the
thin film of water rose, receded, crept up again a little higher, and
again flowed back, with the low hiss of snowy foam and gilded bubbles
breaking.

I stood a little while quiet, my eyes upon the water, the invitation of
the ocean in my ears, vague and sweet as the murmur of a shell. Then I
looked at my bathing suit and towels.

"In we go!" said I aloud. A second later the prophecy was fulfilled.

I swam far out to sea, and as I swam the waters all around me turned to
gold. The sun had risen.

There is a fragrance in the sea at dawn that none can name. Whitethorn
abloom in May, sedges asway, and scented rushes rustling in an inland
wind recall the sea to me--I can't say why.

Far out at sea I raised myself, swung around, dived, and set out again
for shore, striking strong strokes until the flecked foam flew. And
when at last I shot through the breakers, I laughed aloud and sprang
upon the beach, breathless and happy. Then from the ocean came another
cry, clear, joyous, and a white arm rose in the air.

She came drifting in with the waves like a white sea-sprite, laughing
at me from her tangled hair, and I plunged into the breakers again to
join her.

Side by side we swam along the coast, just outside the breakers, until
in the next cove we saw the flutter of her maid's cap strings.

"I will beat you to breakfast!" she cried, as I rested, watching her
glide up along the beach.

"Done!" said I--"for a sea-shell!"

"Done!" she called across the water.

I made good speed along the shore, and I was not long in dressing,
but when I entered the dining-room she was there, demure, smiling,
exquisite in her cool, white frock.

"The sea-shell is yours," said I. "I hope I can find one with a pearl
in it."

The professor hurried in before she could reply. He greeted me very
cordially, but there was an abstracted air about him, and he called me
Dick until I recognised that remonstrance was useless. He was not long
over his coffee and rolls.

"McPeek and Frisby will return with the last load, including your
trunk, by early afternoon," he said, rising and picking up his bundle
of drawings. "I haven't time to explain to you what we are doing,
Dick, but Daisy will take you about and instruct you. She will give
you the rifle standing in my room--it's a good Winchester. I have
sent for an 'Express' for you, big enough to knock over any elephant
in India.--Daisy, take him through the sheds and tell him everything.
Luncheon is at noon.--Do you usually take luncheon, Dick?"

"When I am permitted," I smiled.

"Well," said the professor doubtfully, "you mustn't come back here
for it. Freda can take you what you want. Is your hand unsteady after
eating?"

"Why, papa!" said Daisy. "Do you intend to starve him?"

We all laughed.

The professor tucked his drawings into a capacious pocket, pulled his
sea boots up to his hips, seized a spade, and left, nodding to us as
though he were thinking of something else.

We went to the door and watched him across the salt meadows until a
distant sand dune hid him.

"Come," said Daisy Holroyd, "I am going to take you to the shop."

She put on a broad-brimmed straw hat, a distractingly pretty
combination of filmy cool stuffs, and led the way to the long low
structure that I had noticed the evening before.

The interior was lighted by the numberless little portholes, and I
could see everything plainly. I acknowledge I was nonplussed by what I
did see.

In the centre of the shed, which must have been at least a hundred feet
long, stood what I thought at first was the skeleton of an enormous
whale. After a moment's silent contemplation of the thing I saw that
it could not be a whale, for the frames of two gigantic bat-like wings
rose from each shoulder. Also I noticed that the animal possessed
legs--four of them--with most unpleasant-looking webbed claws fully
eight feet long. The bony framework of the head, too, resembled
something between a crocodile and a monstrous snapping turtle.
The walls of the shanty were hung with drawings and blue prints. A
man dressed in white linen was tinkering with the vertebræ of the
lizardlike tail.

"Where on earth did such a reptile come from?" I asked at length.

"Oh, it's not real!" said Daisy scornfully; "it's papier-maché."

"I see," said I--"a stage prop."

"A what?" asked Daisy, in hurt astonishment.

"Why, a--a sort of Siegfried dragon--a what's-his-name--er, Pfafner, or
Peffer, or----"

"If my father heard you say such things he would dislike you," said
Daisy. She looked grieved, and moved toward the door. I apologized--for
what, I knew not--and we became reconciled. She ran into her father's
room and brought me the rifle, a very good Winchester. She also gave me
a cartridge belt, full.

"Now," she smiled, "I shall take you to your observatory, and when we
arrive you are to begin your duty at once."

"And that duty?" I ventured, shouldering the rifle.

"That duty is, to watch the ocean. I shall then explain the whole
affair--but you mustn't look at me while I speak; you must watch the
sea."

"This," said I, "is hardship. I had rather go without the luncheon."

I do not think she was offended at my speech; still she frowned for
almost three seconds.

We passed through acres of sweet bay and spear grass, sometimes
skirting thickets of twisted cedars, sometimes walking in the full
glare of the morning sun, sinking into shifting sand where sun-scorched
shells crackled under our feet, and sun-browned seaweed glistened,
bronzed and iridescent. Then, as we climbed a little hill, the sea wind
freshened in our faces, and lo! the ocean lay below us, far-stretching
as the eye could reach, glittering, magnificent.

Daisy sat down flat on the sand. It takes a clever girl to do that and
retain the respectful deference due her from men. It takes a graceful
girl to accomplish it triumphantly when a man is looking.

"You must sit beside me," she said--as though it would prove irksome to
me.

"Now," she continued, "you must watch the water while I am talking."

I nodded.

"Why don't you do it, then?" she asked.

I succeeded in wrenching my head toward the ocean, although I felt sure
it would swing gradually round again in spite of me.

"To begin with," said Daisy Holroyd, "there's a thing in that ocean
that would astonish you if you saw it. Turn your head!"

"I am," I said meekly.

"Did you hear what I said?"

"Yes--er--a thing in the ocean that's going to astonish me." Visions of
mermaids rose before me.

"The thing," said Daisy, "is a Thermosaurus!"

I nodded vaguely, as though anticipating a delightful introduction to
a nautical friend.

"You don't seem astonished," she said reproachfully.

"Why should I be?" I asked.

"Please turn your eyes toward the water. Suppose a Thermosaurus should
look out of the waves!"

"Well," said I, "in that case the pleasure would be mutual."

She frowned, and bit her upper lip.

"Do you know what a Thermosaurus is?" she asked.

"If I am to guess," said I, "I guess it's a jellyfish."

"It's that big, ugly, horrible creature that I showed you in the shed!"
cried Daisy impatiently.

"Eh!" I stammered.

"Not papier-maché either," she continued excitedly; "it's a real one."

This was pleasant news. I glanced instinctively at my rifle and then at
the ocean.

"Well," said I at last, "it strikes me that you and I resemble a pair
of Andromedas waiting to be swallowed. This rifle won't stop a beast,
a live beast, like that Nibelungen dragon of yours."

"Yes, it will," she said; "it's not an ordinary rifle."

Then, for the first time, I noticed, just below the magazine, a
cylindrical attachment that was strange to me.

"Now, if you will watch the sea very carefully, and will promise not to
look at me," said Daisy, "I will try to explain."

She did not wait for me to promise, but went on eagerly, a sparkle of
excitement in her blue eyes:

"You know, of all the fossil remains of the great bat-like and
lizard-like creatures that inhabited the earth ages and ages ago,
the bones of the gigantic saurians are the most interesting. I think
they used to splash about the water and fly over the land during the
Carboniferous period; anyway, it doesn't matter. Of course, you have
seen pictures of reconstructed creatures such as the Ichthyosaurus, the
Plesiosaurus, the Anthracosaurus, and the Thermosaurus?"

I nodded, trying to keep my eyes from hers.

"And you know that the remains of the Thermosaurus were first
discovered and reconstructed by papa?"

"Yes," said I. There was no use in saying no.

"I am glad you do. Now, papa has proved that this creature lived
entirely in the Gulf Stream, emerging for occasional flights across an
ocean or two. Can you imagine how he proved it?"

"No," said I, resolutely pointing my nose at the ocean.

"He proved it by a minute examination of the microscopical shells
found among the ribs of the Thermosaurus. These shells contained little
creatures that live only in the warm waters of the Gulf Stream. They
were the food of the Thermosaurus."

"It was rather slender rations for a thing like that, wasn't it? Did he
ever swallow bigger food--er--men?"

"Oh, yes. Tons of fossil bones from prehistoric men are also found in
the interior of the Thermosaurus."

"Then," said I, "you, at least, had better go back to Captain
McPeek's----"

"Please turn around; don't be so foolish. I didn't say there was a
_live_ Thermosaurus in the water, did I?"

"Isn't there?"

"Why, no!"

My relief was genuine, but I thought of the rifle and looked
suspiciously out to sea.

"What's the Winchester for?" I asked.

"Listen, and I will explain. Papa has found out--how, I do not exactly
understand--that there is in the waters of the Gulf Stream the body of
a Thermosaurus. The creature must have been alive within a year or so.
The impenetrable scale armour that covers its body has, as far as papa
knows, prevented its disintegration. We know that it is there still, or
was there within a few months. Papa has reports and sworn depositions
from steamer captains and seamen from a dozen different vessels,
all corroborating each other in essential details. These stories, of
course, get into the newspapers--sea-serpent stories--but papa knows
that they confirm his theory that the huge body of this reptile is
swinging along somewhere on the Gulf Stream."

She opened her sunshade and held it over her. I noticed that she
deigned to give me the benefit of about one eighth of it.

"Your duty with that rifle is this: If we are fortunate enough to see
the body of the Thermosaurus come floating by, you are to take good
aim and fire--fire rapidly every bullet in the magazine; then reload
and fire again, and reload and fire as long as you have any cartridges
left."

"A self-feeding Maxim is what I should have," I said with gentle
sarcasm. "Well, and suppose I make a sieve of this big lizard?"

"Do you see these rings in the sand?" she asked.

Sure enough, somebody had driven heavy piles deep into the sand all
around us, and to the tops of these piles were attached steel rings,
half buried under the spear grass. We sat almost exactly in the centre
of a circle of these rings.

"The reason is this," said Daisy: "every bullet in your cartridges
is steel-tipped and armour-piercing. To the base of each bullet is
attached a thin wire of pallium. Pallium is that new metal, a thread of
which, drawn out into finest wire, will hold a ton of iron suspended.
Every bullet is fitted with minute coils of miles of this wire. When
the bullet leaves the rifle it spins out this wire as a shot from a
life-saver's mortar spins out and carries the life line to a wrecked
ship. The end of each coil of wire is attached to that cylinder under
the magazine of your rifle. As soon as the shell is automatically
ejected this wire flies out also. A bit of scarlet tape is fixed to
the end, so that it will be easy to pick up. There is also a snap clasp
on the end, and this clasp fits those rings that you see in the sand.
Now, when you begin firing, it is my duty to run and pick up the wire
ends and attach them to the rings. Then, you see, we have the body of
the Thermosaurus full of bullets, every bullet anchored to the shore by
tiny wires, each of which could easily hold a ton's strain."

I looked at her in amazement.

"Then," she added calmly, "we have captured the Thermosaurus."

"Your father," said I at length, "must have spent years of labour over
this preparation."

"It is the work of a lifetime," she said simply.

My face, I suppose, showed my misgivings.

"It must not fail," she added.

"But--but we are nowhere near the Gulf Stream," I ventured.

Her face brightened, and she frankly held the sunshade over us both.

"Ah, you don't know," she said, "what else papa has discovered. Would
you believe that he has found a loop in the Gulf Stream--a genuine
loop--that swings in here just outside of the breakers below? It is
true! Everybody on Long Island knows that there is a warm current off
the coast, but nobody imagined it was merely a sort of backwater from
the Gulf Stream that formed a great circular mill-race around the
cone of a subterranean volcano, and rejoined the Gulf Stream off Cape
Albatross. But it is! That is why papa bought a yacht three years ago
and sailed about for two years so mysteriously. Oh, I did want to go
with him so much!"

"This," said I, "is most astonishing."

She leaned enthusiastically toward me, her lovely face aglow.

"Isn't it?" she said; "and to think that you and papa and I are the
only people in the whole world who know this!"

To be included in such a triology was very delightful.

"Papa is writing the whole thing--I mean about the currents. He also
has in preparation sixteen volumes on the Thermosaurus. He said this
morning that he was going to ask you to write the story first for some
scientific magazine. He is certain that Professor Bruce Stoddard, of
Columbia, will write the pamphlets necessary. This will give papa time
to attend to the sixteen-volume work, which he expects to finish in
three years."

"Let us first," said I, laughing, "catch our Thermosaurus."

"We must not fail," she said wistfully.

"We shall not fail," I said, "for I promise to sit on this sand hill
as long as I live--until a Thermosaurus appears--if that is your wish,
Miss Holroyd."

Our eyes met for an instant. She did not chide me, either, for not
looking at the ocean. Her eyes were bluer, anyway.

"I suppose," she said, bending her head and absently pouring sand
between her fingers--"I suppose you think me a blue-stocking, or
something odious?"

"Not exactly," I said. There was an emphasis in my voice that made her
colour. After a moment she laid the sunshade down, still open.

"May I hold it?" I asked.

She nodded almost imperceptibly.

The ocean had turned a deep marine blue, verging on purple, that
heralded a scorching afternoon. The wind died away; the odour of cedar
and sweet bay hung heavy in the air.

In the sand at our feet an iridescent flower beetle crawled, its
metallic green and blue wings burning like a spark. Great gnats, with
filmy, glittering wings, danced aimlessly above the young golden-rod;
burnished crickets, inquisitive, timid, ran from under chips of
driftwood, waved their antennæ at us, and ran back again. One by one
the marbled tiger beetles tumbled at our feet, dazed from the exertion
of an aërial flight, then scrambled and ran a little way, or darted
into the wire grass, where great brilliant spiders eyed them askance
from their gossamer hammocks.

Far out at sea the white gulls floated and drifted on the water, or
sailed up into the air to flap lazily for a moment and settle back
among the waves. Strings of black surf ducks passed, their strong wings
tipping the surface of the water; single wandering coots whirled from
the breakers into lonely flight toward the horizon.

We lay and watched the little ring-necks running along the water's
edge, now backing away from the incoming tide, now boldly wading
after the undertow. The harmony of silence, the deep perfume, the
mystery of waiting for that something that all await--what is it?
love? death? or only the miracle of another morrow?--troubled me with
vague restfulness. As sunlight casts shadows, happiness, too, throws a
shadow, and the shadow is sadness.

And so the morning wore away until Freda came with a cool-looking
hamper. Then delicious cold fowl and lettuce sandwiches and champagne
cup set our tongues wagging as only very young tongues can wag. Daisy
went back with Freda after luncheon, leaving me a case of cigars, with
a bantering smile. I dozed, half awake, keeping a partly closed eye
on the ocean, where a faint gray streak showed plainly amid the azure
water all around. That was the Gulf Stream loop.

About four o'clock Frisby appeared with a bamboo shelter tent, for
which I was unaffectedly grateful.

After he had erected it over me he stopped to chat a bit, but the
conversation bored me, for he could talk of nothing but bill-posting.

"You wouldn't ruin the landscape here, would you?" I asked.

"Ruin it!" repeated Frisby nervously. "It's ruined now; there ain't a
place to stick a bill."

"The snipe stick bills--in the sand," I said flippantly.

There was no humour about Frisby. "Do they?" he asked.

I moved with a certain impatience.

"Bills," said Frisby, "give spice an' variety to Nature. They break the
monotony of the everlastin' green and what-you-may-call-its."

I glared at him.

"Bills," he continued, "are not easy to stick, lemme tell you, sir.
Sign paintin's a soft snap when it comes to bill-stickin'. Now, I guess
I've stuck more bills in New York State than ennybody."

"Have you?" I said angrily.

"Yes, siree! I always pick out the purtiest spots--kinder filled chuck
full of woods and brooks and things; then I h'ist my paste-pot onto a
rock, and I slather that rock with gum, and whoop she goes!"

"Whoop what goes?"

"The bill. I paste her onto the rock, with one swipe of the brush for
the edges and a back-handed swipe for the finish--except when a bill is
folded in two halves."

"And what do you do then?" I asked, disgusted.

"Swipe twice," said Frisby with enthusiasm.

"And you don't think it injures the landscape?"

"Injures it!" he exclaimed, convinced that I was attempting to joke.

I looked wearily out to sea. He also looked at the water and sighed
sentimentally.

"Floatin' buoys with bills onto 'em is a idea of mine," he observed.
"That damn ocean is monotonous, ain't it?"

I don't know what I might have done to Frisby--the rifle was so
convenient--if his mean yellow dog had not waddled up at this juncture.

"Hi, Davy, sic 'em!" said Frisby, expectorating upon a clamshell
and hurling it seaward. The cur watched the flight of the shell
apathetically, then squatted in the sand and looked at his master.

"Kinder lost his spirit," said Frisby, "ain't he? I once stuck a bill
onto Davy, an' it come off, an' the paste sorter sickened him. He was
hell on rats--once!"

After a moment or two Frisby took himself off, whistling cheerfully
to Davy, who followed him when he was ready. The rifle burned in my
fingers.

It was nearly six o'clock when the professor appeared, spade on
shoulder, boots smeared with mud.

"Well," he said, "nothing to report, Dick, my boy?"

"Nothing, professor."

He wiped his shining face with his handkerchief and stared at the water.

"My calculations lead me to believe," he said, "that our prize may be
due any day now. This theory I base upon the result of the report from
the last sea captain I saw. I can not understand why some of these
captains did not take the carcass in tow. They all say that they tried,
but that the body sank before they could come within half a mile. The
truth is, probably, that they did not stir a foot from their course to
examine the thing."

"Have you ever cruised about for it?" I ventured.

"For two years," he said grimly. "It's no use; it's accident when a
ship falls in with it. One captain reports it a thousand miles from
where the last skipper spoke it, and always in the Gulf Stream. They
think it is a different specimen every time, and the papers are teeming
with sea-serpent fol-de-rol."

"Are you sure," I asked, "that it will swing in to the coast on this
Gulf Stream loop?"

"I think I may say that it is certain to do so. I experimented with
a dead right whale. You may have heard of its coming ashore here last
summer."

"I think I did," said I with a faint smile. The thing had poisoned the
air for miles around.

"But," I continued, "suppose it comes in the night?"

He laughed.

"There I am lucky. Every night this month, and every day, too,
the current of the loop runs inland so far that even a porpoise
would strand for at least twelve hours. Longer than that I have not
experimented with, but I know that the shore trend of the loop runs
across a long spur of the submerged volcanic mountain, and that
anything heavier than a porpoise would scrape the bottom and be carried
so slowly that at least twelve hours must elapse before the carcass
could float again into deep water. There are chances of its stranding
indefinitely, too, but I don't care to take those chances. That is why
I have stationed you here, Dick, my boy."

He glanced again at the water, smiling to himself.

"There is another question I want to ask," I said, "if you don't mind."

"Of course not!" he said warmly.

"What are you digging for?"

"Why, simply for exercise. The doctor told me I was killing myself
with my sedentary habits, so I decided to dig. I don't know a better
exercise. Do you?"

"I suppose not," I murmured, rather red in the face. I wondered whether
he'd mention fossils.

"Did Daisy tell you why we are making our papier-maché Thermosaurus?"
he asked.

I shook my head.

"We constructed that from measurements I took from the fossil remains
of the Thermosaurus in the Metropolitan Museum. Professor Bruce
Stoddard made the drawings. We set it up here, all ready to receive the
skin of the carcass that I am expecting."

We had started toward home, walking slowly across the darkening dunes,
shoulder to shoulder. The sand was deep, and walking was not easy.

"I wish," said I at last, "that I knew why Miss Holroyd asked me not to
walk on the beach. It's much less fatiguing."

"That," said the professor, "is a matter that I intend to discuss with
you to-night." He spoke gravely, almost sadly. I felt that something of
unparalleled importance was soon to be revealed. So I kept very quiet,
watching the ocean out of the corners of my eyes.


IV.

Dinner was ended. Daisy Holroyd lighted her father's pipe for him, and
insisted on my smoking as much as I pleased. Then she sat down, and
folded her hands like a good little girl, waiting for her father to
make the revelation which I felt in my bones must be something out of
the ordinary.

The professor smoked for a while, gazing meditatively at his daughter;
then, fixing his gray eyes on me, he said:

"Have you ever heard of the kree--that Australian bird, half parrot,
half hawk, that destroys so many sheep in New South Wales?"

I nodded.

"The kree kills a sheep by alighting on its back and tearing away
the flesh with its hooked beak until a vital part is reached. You
know that? Well, it has been discovered that the kree had prehistoric
prototypes. These birds were enormous creatures, who preyed upon
mammoths and mastodons, and even upon the great saurians. It has
been conclusively proved that a few saurians have been killed by
the ancestors of the kree, but the favourite food of these birds was
undoubtedly the Thermosaurus. It is believed that the birds attacked
the eyes of the Thermosaurus, and when, as was its habit, the mammoth
creature turned on its back to claw them, they fell upon the thinner
scales of its stomach armour and finally killed it. This, of course,
is a theory, but we have almost absolute proofs of its correctness.
Now, these two birds are known among scientists as the ekaf-bird and
the ool-yllik. The names are Australian, in which country most of
their remains have been unearthed. They lived during the Carboniferous
period. Now it is not generally known, but the fact is, that in
1801 Captain Ransom, of the British exploring vessel Gull, purchased
from the natives of Tasmania the skin of an ekaf-bird that could not
have been killed more than twenty-four hours previous to its sale. I
saw this skin in the British Museum. It was labelled "unknown bird,
probably extinct." It took me exactly a week to satisfy myself that it
was actually the skin of an ekaf-bird. But that is not all, Dick, my
boy," continued the professor excitedly. "In 1854, Admiral Stuart, of
our own navy, saw the carcass of a strange gigantic bird floating along
the southern coast of Australia. Sharks were after it, and, before a
boat could be lowered, these miserable fish got it. But the good old
admiral secured a few feathers and sent them to the Smithsonian. I saw
them. They were not even labelled, but I knew that they were feathers
from the ekaf-bird or its near relative, the ool-yllik."

I had grown so interested that I had leaned far across the table.
Daisy, too, bent forward. It was only when the professor paused for a
moment that I noticed how close together our heads were--Daisy's and
mine. I don't think she realized it. She did not move.

"Now comes the important part of this long discourse," said the
professor, smiling at our eagerness. "Ever since the carcass of our
derelict Thermosaurus was first noticed, every captain who has seen
it has also reported the presence of one or more gigantic birds in
the neighbourhood. These birds, at a great distance, appeared to
be hovering over the carcass, but on the approach of a vessel they
disappeared. Even in midocean they were observed. When I heard about it
I was puzzled. A month later I was satisfied that neither the ekaf-bird
nor the ool-yllik was extinct. Last Monday I knew that I was right.
I found forty-eight distinct impressions of the huge seven-toed claw
of the ekaf-bird on the beach here at Pine Inlet. You may imagine my
excitement. I succeeded in digging up enough wet sand around one of
these impressions to preserve its form. I managed to get it into a soap
box, and now it is there in my shop. The tide rose too rapidly for me
to save the other footprints."

I shuddered at the possibility of a clumsy misstep on my part
obliterating the impression of an ool-yllik.

"That is the reason that my daughter warned you off the beach," he said
mildly.

"Hanging would have been too good for the vandal who destroyed such
priceless prizes!" I cried out in self-reproach.

Daisy Holroyd turned a flushed face to mine, and impulsively laid her
hand on my sleeve.

"How could you know?" she said.

"It's all right now," said her father, emphasizing each word with
a gentle tap of his pipe-bowl on the table edge; "don't be hard on
yourself, Dick, my boy. You'll do yeoman's service yet."

It was nearly midnight, and still we chatted on about the Thermosaurus,
the ekaf-bird, and the ool-yllik, eagerly discussing the probability of
the great reptile's carcass being in the vicinity. That alone seemed to
explain the presence of these prehistoric birds at Pine Inlet.

"Do they ever attack human beings?" I asked.

The professor looked startled.

"Gracious!" he exclaimed, "I never thought of that. And Daisy running
about out of doors! Dear me! it takes a scientist to be an unnatural
parent!"

His alarm was half real, half assumed; but all the same, he glanced
gravely at us both, shaking his handsome head, absorbed in thought.
Daisy herself looked a little doubtful. As for me, my sensations were
distinctly queer.

"It is true," said the professor, frowning at the wall, "that human
remains have been found associated with the bones of the ekaf-bird--I
don't know how intimately. It is a matter to be taken into most serious
consideration."

"The problem can be solved," said I, "in several ways. One is, to keep
Miss Holroyd in the house----"

"I shall not stay in!" cried Daisy indignantly.

We all laughed, and her father assured her that she should not be
abused.

"Even if I did stay in," she said, "one of these birds might alight on
Master Dick."

She looked saucily at me as she spoke, but turned crimson when her
father observed quietly, "You don't seem to think of me, Daisy."

"Of course I do," she said, getting up and putting both arms around
her father's neck; "but Dick--as--as you call him--is so helpless and
timid."

My blissful smile froze on my lips.

"Timid!" I repeated.

She came back to the table, making me a mocking reverence.

"Do you think I am to be laughed at with impunity?" she said.

"What are your other plans, Dick, my boy?" asked the
professor.--"Daisy, let him alone, you little tease!"

"One is, to haul a lot of cast-iron boilers along the dunes," I said.
"If these birds come when the carcass floats in, and if they seem
disposed to trouble us, we could crawl into the boilers and be safe."

"Why, that is really brilliant!" cried Daisy.

"Be quiet, my child! Dick, the plan is sound and sensible and perfectly
practical. McPeek and Frisby shall go for a dozen loads of boilers
to-morrow."

"It will spoil the beauty of the landscape," said Daisy, with a
taunting nod to me.

"And Frisby will probably attempt to cover them with bill-posters," I
added, laughing.

"That," said Daisy, "I shall prevent, even at the cost of my life." And
she stood up, looking very determined.

"Children, children," protested the professor, "go to bed--you bother
me."

Then I turned deliberately to Miss Holroyd.

"Good-night, Daisy," I said.

"Good-night, Dick," she said, very gently.


V.

The week passed quickly for me, leaving but few definite impressions.
As I look back to it now I can see the long stretch of beach burning
in the fierce sunlight, the endless meadows, with the glimmer of
water in the distance, the dunes, the twisted cedars, the leagues of
scintillating ocean, rocking, rocking, always rocking. In the starlit
nights the curlew came in from the sand-bars by twos and threes; I
could hear their faint call as I lay in bed thinking. All day long the
little ring-necks whistled from the shore. The plover answered them
from distant lonely inland pools. The great white gulls drifted like
feathers upon the sea.

One morning, toward the end of the week, I, strolling along the dunes,
came upon Frisby. He was bill-posting. I caught him red-handed.

"This," said I, "must stop. Do you understand, Mr. Frisby?"

He stepped back from his work, laying his head on one side, considering
first me, then the bill that he had pasted on one of our big boilers.

"Don't like the colour?" he asked. "It goes well on them boilers."

"Colour! No, I don't like the colour either. Can't you understand that
there are some people in the world who object to seeing patent-medicine
advertisements scattered over a landscape?"

"Hey?" he said perplexed.

"Will you kindly remove that advertisement?" I persisted.

"Too late," said Frisby; "it's sot."

I was too disgusted to speak, but my disgust turned to anger when
I perceived that, as far as the eye could reach, our boilers, lying
from three to four hundred feet apart, were ablaze with yellow and red
posters, extolling the "Eureka Liver Pill Company."

"It don't cost 'em nothin'," said Frisby cheerfully; "I done it fur the
fun of it. Purty, ain't it?"

"They are Professor Holroyd's boilers," I said, subduing a desire
to beat Frisby with my telescope. "Wait until Miss Holroyd sees this
work."

"Don't she like yeller and red?" he demanded anxiously.

"You'll find out," said I.

Frisby gaped at his handiwork and then at his yellow dog. After a
moment he mechanically spat on a clamshell and requested Davy to "sic"
it.

"Can't you comprehend that you have ruined our pleasure in the
landscape?" I asked more mildly.

"I've got some green bills," said Frisby; "I kin stick 'em over the
yeller ones----"

"Confound it!" said I, "it isn't the colour!"

"Then," observed Frisby, "you don't like them pills. I've got some
bills of the 'Cropper Bicycle,' and a few of 'Bagley, the Gents'
Tailor----'"

"Frisby," said I, "use them all--paste the whole collection over your
dog and yourself--then walk off the cliff."

He sullenly unfolded a green poster, swabbed the boiler with paste,
laid the upper section of the bill upon it, and plastered the whole
bill down with a thwack of his brush. As I walked away I heard him
muttering.

Next day Daisy was so horrified that I promised to give Frisby an
ultimatum. I found him with Freda, gazing sentimentally at his work,
and I sent him back to the shop in a hurry, telling Freda at the same
time that she could spend her leisure in providing Mr. Frisby with
sand, soap, and a scrubbing brush. Then I walked on to my post of
observation.

I watched until sunset. Daisy came with her father to hear my report,
but there was nothing to tell, and we three walked slowly back to the
house.

In the evenings the professor worked on his volumes, the click of his
type-writer sounding faintly behind his closed door. Daisy and I played
chess sometimes; sometimes we played hearts. I don't remember that we
ever finished a game of either--we talked too much.

Our discussions covered every topic of interest: we argued
upon politics; we skimmed over literature and music; we settled
international differences; we spoke vaguely of human brotherhood. I say
we slighted no subject of interest--I am wrong; we never spoke of love.

Now, love is a matter of interest to ten people out of ten. Why it was
that it did not appear to interest us is as interesting a question
as love itself. We were young, alert, enthusiastic, inquiring. We
eagerly absorbed theories concerning any curious phenomena in Nature,
as intellectual cocktails to stimulate discussion. And yet we did not
discuss love. I do not say that we avoided it. No; the subject was too
completely ignored for even that. And yet we found it very difficult to
pass an hour separated. The professor noticed this, and laughed at us.
We were not even embarrassed.

Sunday passed in pious contemplation of the ocean. Daisy read a little
in her prayer-book, and the professor threw a cloth over his typewriter
and strolled up and down the sands. He may have been lost in devout
abstraction; he may have been looking for footprints. As for me, my
mind was very serene, and I was more than happy. Daisy read to me a
little for my soul's sake, and the professor came up and said something
cheerful. He also examined the magazine of my Winchester.

That night, too, Daisy took her guitar to the sands and sang one or two
Armenian hymns. Unlike us, the Armenians do not take their pleasures
sadly. One of their pleasures is evidently religion.

The big moon came up over the dunes and stared at the sea until the
surface of every wave trembled with radiance. A sudden stillness fell
across the world; the wind died out; the foam ran noiselessly across
the beach; the cricket's rune was stilled.

I leaned back, dropping one hand upon the sand. It touched another
hand, soft and cool.

After a while the other hand moved slightly, and I found that my own
had closed above it. Presently one finger stirred a little--only a
little--for our fingers were interlocked.

On the shore the foam-froth bubbled and winked and glimmered in the
moonlight. A star fell from the zenith, showering the night with
incandescent dust.

If our fingers lay interlaced beside us, her eyes were calm and serene
as always, wide open, fixed upon the depths of a dark sky. And when her
father rose and spoke to us, she did not withdraw her hand.

"Is it late?" she asked dreamily.

"It is midnight, little daughter."

I stood up, still holding her hand, and aided her to rise. And when, at
the door, I said good-night, she turned and looked at me for a little
while in silence, then passed into her room slowly, with head still
turned toward me.

All night long I dreamed of her; and when the east whitened, I sprang
up, the thunder of the ocean in my ears, the strong sea wind blowing
into the open window.

"She is asleep," I thought, and I leaned from the window and peered out
into the east.

The sea called to me, tossing its thousand arms; the soaring gulls,
dipping, rising, wheeling above the sand-bar, screamed and clamoured
for a playmate. I slipped into my bathing suit, dropped from the window
upon the soft sand, and in a moment had plunged head foremost into the
surf, swimming beneath the waves toward the open sea.

Under the tossing ocean the voice of the waters was in my ears--a low,
sweet voice, intimate, mysterious. Through singing foam and broad,
green, glassy depths, by whispering sandy channels atrail with seaweed,
and on, on, out into the vague, cool sea, I sped, rising to the top,
sinking, gliding. Then at last I flung myself out of water, hands
raised, and the clamour of the gulls filled my ears.

As I lay, breathing fast, drifting on the sea, far out beyond the gulls
I saw a flash of white, and an arm was lifted, signalling me.

"Daisy!" I called.

A clear hail came across the water, distinct on the sea wind, and at
the same instant we raised our hands and moved toward each other.

How we laughed as we met in the sea! The white dawn came up out of the
depths, the zenith turned to rose and ashes.

And with the dawn came the wind--a great sea wind, fresh, aromatic,
that hurled our voices back into our throats and lifted the sheeted
spray above our heads. Every wave, crowned with mist, caught us in a
cool embrace, cradled us, and slipped away, only to leave us to another
wave, higher, stronger, crested with opalescent glory, breathing
incense.

We turned together up the coast, swimming lightly side by side, but our
words were caught up by the winds and whirled into the sky.

We looked up at the driving clouds; we looked out upon the pallid waste
of waters; but it was into each other's eyes we looked, wondering,
wistful, questioning the reason of sky and sea. And there in each
other's eyes we read the mystery, and we knew that earth and sky and
sea were created for us alone.

Drifting on by distant sands and dunes, her white fingers touching
mine, we spoke, keying our tones to the wind's vast harmony. And we
spoke of love.

Gray and wide as the limitless span of the sky and the sea, the
winds gathered from the world's ends to bear us on; but they were
not familiar winds; for now, along the coast, the breakers curled and
showed a million fangs, and the ocean stirred to its depths, uneasy,
ominous, and the menace of its murmur drew us closer as we moved.

Where the dull thunder and the tossing spray warned us from sunken
reefs, we heard the harsh challenges of gulls; where the pallid surf
twisted in yellow coils of spume above the bar, the singing sands
murmured of treachery and secrets of lost souls agasp in the throes of
silent undertows.

But there was a little stretch of beach glimmering through the
mountains of water, and toward this we turned, side by side. Around us
the water grew warmer; the breath of the following waves moistened our
cheeks; the water itself grew gray and strange about us.

"We have come too far," I said; but she only answered: "Faster, faster!
I am afraid!" The water was almost hot now; its aromatic odour filled
our lungs.

"The Gulf loop!" I muttered. "Daisy, shall I help you?"

"No. Swim--close by me! Oh-h! Dick----"

Her startled cry was echoed by another--a shrill scream, unutterably
horrible--and a great bird flapped from the beach, splashing and
beating its pinions across the water with a thundering noise.

Out across the waves it blundered, rising little by little from the
water, and now, to my horror, I saw another monstrous bird swinging in
the air above it, squealing as it turned on its vast wings. Before I
could speak we touched the beach, and I half lifted her to the shore.

"Quick!" I repeated. "We must not wait."

Her eyes were dark with fear, but she rested a hand on my shoulder, and
we crept up among the dune grasses and sank down by the point of sand
where the rough shelter stood, surrounded by the iron-ringed piles.

She lay there, breathing fast and deep, dripping with spray. I had no
power of speech left, but when I rose wearily to my knees and looked
out upon the water my blood ran cold. Above the ocean, on the breast
of the roaring wind, three enormous birds sailed, turning and wheeling
among each other; and below, drifting with the gray stream of the Gulf
loop, a colossal bulk lay half submerged--a gigantic lizard, floating
belly upward.

Then Daisy crept kneeling to my side and touched me, trembling from
head to foot.

"I know," I muttered. "I must run back for the rifle."

"And--and leave me?"

I took her by the hand, and we dragged ourselves through the wire grass
to the open end of a boiler lying in the sand.

She crept in on her hands and knees, and called to me to follow.

"You are safe now," I cried. "I must go back for the rifle."

"The birds may--may attack you."

"If they do I can get into one of the other boilers," I said. "Daisy,
you must not venture out until I come back. You won't, will you?"

"No-o," she whispered doubtfully.

"Then--good-by."

"Good-by," she answered, but her voice was very small and still.

"Good-by," I said again. I was kneeling at the mouth of the big iron
tunnel; it was dark inside and I could not see her, but, before I was
conscious of it, her arms were around my neck and we had kissed each
other.

I don't remember how I went away. When I came to my proper senses I was
swimming along the coast at full speed, and over my head wheeled one of
the birds, screaming at every turn.

The intoxication of that innocent embrace, the close impress of her
arms around my neck, gave me a strength and recklessness that neither
fear nor fatigue could subdue. The bird above me did not even frighten
me; I watched it over my shoulder, swimming strongly, with the tide now
aiding me, now stemming my course; but I saw the shore passing quickly
and my strength increased, and I shouted when I came in sight of the
house, and scrambled up on the sand, dripping and excited. There was
nobody in sight, and I gave a last glance up into the air where the
bird wheeled, still screeching, and hastened into the house. Freda
stared at me in amazement as I seized the rifle and shouted for the
professor.

"He has just gone to town, with Captain McPeek in his wagon," stammered
Freda.

"What!" I cried. "Does he know where his daughter is?"

"Miss Holroyd is asleep--not?" gasped Freda.

"Where's Frisby?" I cried impatiently.

"Yimmie?" quavered Freda.

"Yes, Jimmie; isn't there anybody here? Good heavens! where's that man
in the shop?"

"He also iss gone," said Freda, shedding tears, "to buy papier-maché.
Yimmie, he iss gone to post bills."

I waited to hear no more, but swung my rifle over my shoulder, and,
hanging the cartridge belt across my chest, hurried out and up the
beach. The bird was not in sight.

I had been running for perhaps a minute when, far up on the dunes, I
saw a yellow dog rush madly through a clump of sweet bay, and at the
same moment a bird soared past, rose, and hung hovering just above
the thicket. Suddenly the bird swooped; there was a shriek and a yelp
from the cur, but the bird gripped it in one claw and beat its wings
upon the sand, striving to rise. Then I saw Frisby--paste, bucket, and
brush raised--fall upon the bird, yelling lustily. The fierce creature
relaxed its talons, and the dog rushed on, squeaking with terror. The
bird turned on Frisby and sent him sprawling on his face, a sticky
mass of paste and sand. But this did not end the struggle. The bird,
croaking wildly, flew at the prostrate billposter, and the sand whirled
into a pillar above its terrible wings. Scarcely knowing what I was
about, I raised my rifle and fired twice. A horrid scream echoed each
shot, and the bird rose heavily in a shower of sand; but two bullets
were embedded in that mass of foul feathers, and I saw the wires and
scarlet tape uncoiling on the sand at my feet. In an instant I seized
them and passed the ends around a cedar tree, hooking the clasps tight.
Then I cast one swift glance upward, where the bird wheeled screeching,
anchored like a kite to the pallium wires; and I hurried on across
the dunes, the shells cutting my feet, and the bushes tearing my wet
swimming suit, until I dripped with blood from shoulder to ankle. Out
in the ocean the carcass of the Thermosaurus floated, claws outspread,
belly glistening in the gray light, and over him circled two birds. As
I reached the shelter I knelt and fired into the mass of scales, and at
my first shot a horrible thing occurred: the lizardlike head writhed,
the slitted yellow eyes sliding open from the film that covered them.
A shudder passed across the undulating body, the great scaled belly
heaved, and one leg feebly clawed at the air.

The thing was still alive!

Crushing back the horror that almost paralyzed my hands, I planted shot
after shot into the quivering reptile, while it writhed and clawed,
striving to turn over and dive; and at each shot the black blood
spurted in long, slim jets across the water. And now Daisy was at my
side, pale and determined, swiftly clasping each tape-marked wire to
the iron rings in the circle around us. Twice I filled the magazine
from my belt, and twice I poured streams of steel-tipped bullets into
the scaled mass, twisting and shuddering on the sea. Suddenly the birds
steered toward us. I felt the wind from their vast wings. I saw the
feathers erect, vibrating. I saw the spread claws outstretched, and I
struck furiously at them, crying to Daisy to run into the iron shelter.
Backing, swinging my clubbed rifle, I retreated, but I tripped across
one of the taut pallium wires, and in an instant the hideous birds were
on me, and the bone in my forearm snapped like a pipestem at a blow
from their wings. Twice I struggled to my knees, blinded with blood,
confused, almost fainting; then I fell again, rolling into the mouth of
the iron boiler.

       *       *       *       *       *

When I struggled back to consciousness Daisy knelt silently beside me,
while Captain McPeek and Professor Holroyd bound up my shattered arm,
talking excitedly. The pain made me faint and dizzy. I tried to speak
and could not. At last they got me to my feet and into the wagon, and
Daisy came, too, and crouched beside me, wrapped in oilskins to her
eyes. Fatigue, lack of food, and excitement had combined with wounds
and broken bones to extinguish the last atom of strength in my body;
but my mind was clear enough to understand that the trouble was over
and the Thermosaurus safe.

I heard McPeek say that one of the birds that I had anchored to a cedar
tree had torn loose from the bullets and winged its way heavily out
to sea. The professor answered: "Yes, the ekaf-bird; the others were
ool-ylliks. I'd have given my right arm to have secured them." Then
for a time I heard no more; but the jolting of the wagon over the dunes
roused me to keenest pain, and I held out my right hand to Daisy. She
clasped it in both of hers, and kissed it again and again.

       *       *       *       *       *

There is little more to add, I think. Professor Bruce Stoddard has
edited this story carefully. His own scientific pamphlet will be
published soon, to be followed by Professor Holroyd's sixteen volumes.
In a few days the stuffed and mounted Thermosaurus will be placed on
free public exhibition in the arena of Madison Square Garden, the only
building in the city large enough to contain the body of this immense
winged reptile.

When my arm came out of splints, Daisy and I---- But really that
has nothing to do with a detailed scientific description of the
Thermosaurus, which, I think, I shall add as an appendix to the book.
If you do not find it there it will be because Daisy and I have very
little time to write about Thermosaurians.

But what I really want to tell you about is the extraordinary
adventures of Captain McPeek and Frisby--how they produced a specimen
of Samia Cynthia that dwarfed a hundred of Attacus Atlas, and how the
American line steamer St. Louis fouled the thing with her screw.

The more I think of it the more determined I am to tell it to you. It
will be difficult to prevent me. And that is not fiction either.




ENVOI.




_ENVOI._


 _I._

 _When shadows pass across the grass
  And April breezes stir the sedge,
  Along the brimming river's edge
    I trail my line for silver trout,
  And smoke, and dream of you, my lass,
    And wonder why we two fell out,
    And how the deuce it came about._

 _II._

 _When swallows sheer the meadow-mere
  And thickets thrill with thrushes' hymns,
  Along the mill-pond's reedy rims
    I trail my line for shining dace;
  But how can finny fishes cheer
    A fellow, if he find no grace
    In your sweet eyes and your dear face?_

 _III._

 _Let thrushes wing their way and sing
  Where cresses freshen pebbled nooks;
  By silent rills and singing brooks
    I pass my way alone, alas!
  With your dear name the woodlands ring--
    Your name is murmured by the grass,
    By earth, by air, all-where I pass._

 _IV._

 _The painted bream may swim the stream--
    I'll cast no line to-day, pardi!
  In vain the river-ripples gleam,
    In vain the thrushes' minstrelsy.
  Vain is the wind that whispers, "Lo!
  Thy fish are waiting--Angler, go!"_

 _V._

 _Will you forgive if I forgive?
  Life is too sad, I think, to live
  Alone, and dream and smoke and fish;
  I'll say "Forgive" first--if you wish?_

 _VI._

 _For at that word, the Sorcery
  Of Love shall change the earth and sky
  To Paradise, with cherubim
  Instead of birds on every limb._

 _VII._

 _Rivers shall sing our rhapsody;
  The vaulted forest, tree by tree,
  High hung with tapestry, shall glow
  With golden pillars all a-row._

 _VIII._

 _And down the gilded forest aisle
  Shy throngs of violets shall smile
  And kiss your feet from tree to tree
  While blue-bells droop in courtesy._

 _IX._

 _And if the sun incarnadine
  The clouds--green leaves shall be your screen;
  And if the clouds with jealousy
  Should weep--we'll beg of some kind tree
  A moment's hospitality._

 _X._

 _Good cheer is here, if you incline;
  Moss-hidden springs shall bubble wine
  While squirrels chuckle, rank on rank,
  And strawberries from every bank
  Shall blush to see how deep we drank._

 _XI._

 _Winds of the West shall cool our eyes
  While every woodland creature tries
  His voice a little, so that he
  May know his notes more perfectly
  When crickets start the symphony._

 _XII._

 _Through hazel glade and scented dell
  Where brooklets ring a tinkling bell,
  The forest orchestra shall swell,
  Until the sun-soaked grasses ring
  With crickets strumming string on string._

 _XIII._

 _Then, with your white hand daintily
  Scarce touching mine, we'll leave our tree
  And ramble slowly toward the West
  Where our high castle's flaming crest,
  Towering behind the setting sun,
  Flings out its banners, one by one,
  Signals of fire, that day is done._

 _XIV._

 _Deep in that palace we shall find
  How blind we are, how blind! how blind!
  And how he'll laugh, who holds the key
  To the great portal's mystery!
  And how his joyous laugh will ring
  When you and I shall bid him fling
  The gates ajar for you and me!_

 _XV._

 _Let shadows flee athwart the lea
  When dark December strips the hedge
  Along the icy river's edge;
    Yet, if you will forgive me, lass,
  The world shall bloom like spring to me,
    Snow turn to dew upon the grass
    And fagots blossom where you pass._

 _XVI._

 _Swallows shall sheer the frozen mere,
  Dead reeds along the mill-pond's rims
  Shall thrill with summer-thrushes' hymns,
    While summer breezes blow apace,
  If you will but forgive me, dear,
    And let me find a moment's grace,
    In your sweet eyes and your dear face._

                                       _R. W. C._


THE END.




CORRECTIONS


  page     original text                    correction
  ix       [missing from contents]          THE KEY TO GRIEF      185
  13       Yvette has gone to Bannelec.     Yvette has gone to Bannalec.
  23       It was crowded with Britons,     It was crowded with Bretons,
  29       doxens of similar red            dozens of similar red
  93       the great moth dated             the great moth darted
  103      among the beach trees.           among the beech trees.
  104      leaves of beach and oak          leaves of beech and oak
  135      Sacré garce!                     Sacrée garce!
  167      O frère Jaques,                  O frère Jacques,
  180      carved from red beach.           carved from red beech.
  181      their is much lace               there is much lace
  181      chiselled in red beach.          chiselled in red beech.





End of Project Gutenberg's The Mystery of Choice, by Robert William Chambers