It was a beautiful weapon, its guard and pommel and quillons sparkling with wrought-silver, its grip of yellow leather laced with blue silk. The glow and the feel of it filled me with a joy I had not known since my father gave me the sword of my childhood. It drove the despair out of me, and I was a new man. I tried the blade, its point upon my toe. It was good metal, and the grip fitted me.

"Well, how do you find it?" said he, impatiently.

"I am satisfied," was my reply.

He helped me take off my blouse and waistcoat, and then I rolled my sleeves to the elbow. The hum of voices had grown louder. I could hear men offering to bet and others bantering for odds.

"We'll know soon," said a voice near me, "whether he could have killed Ronley in a fair fight."

I turned to look at those few in the arena. There were half a dozen of them now, surrounding my adversary, a man taller than the rest, with a heavy neck and brawny arms and shoulders. He had come out of the crowd unobserved by me. He also was stripped to the shirt, and had rolled up his sleeves, and was trying the steel. He had a red, bristling mustache and overhanging brows and a vulgar face—not that of a man who settles his quarrel with the sword. I judged a club or a dagger would have been better suited to his genius. But, among fighters, it is easy to be fooled by a face. In a moment the others had gone save his Lordship and that portly bald-headed man I had heard him rebuke as "Sir Charles." My adversary met me at the centre of the arena, where we shook hands. I could see, or thought I could, that he was entering upon a business new to him, for there was in his manner an indication of unsteady nerves.

"Gentlemen, are you ready?" said his Lordship.

But there are reasons why the story of what came after should be none of my telling. I leave it to other and better eyes that were not looking between flashes of steel, as mine were. And then one has never a fair view of his own fights.

[1] The intrepid Fitzgibbon, the most daring leader on the Canadian frontier those days, told me long afterward that he knew the building—a tall frame structure on the high shore of a tributary of the St. Lawrence. It was built on a side of the bluff and used originally as a depot for corn, oats, rye, and potatoes, that came down the river in bateaux. The slide was a slanting box through which the sacks of grain were conveyed to sloops and schooners below. It did not pay and was soon abandoned, whereupon it was rented by the secret order referred to above. The slide bottom was coated with lard and used for the hazing of candidates. A prize fight on the platform was generally a feature of the entertainment. A man was severely injured in a leap on the bayonets, after which that feature of the initiation was said to have been abandoned.



XIV

This is the story of Corporal Darius Olin, touching his adventure in the Temple of the Avengers, at some unknown place in Upper Canada, on the night of August 12, 1813, and particularly the ordeals of the sword, the slide, and the bayonet to which Captain Ramon Bell was subjected that night, as told to Adjutant Asarius Church, at Sackett's Harbor, New York:—

"Soon es I see whut wus up, I gin a powerful lift on thet air shackle-chain. I felt 'er give 'n' bust. A couple o' men clim' int' the seat front uv us, 'n' the hosses started hell bent. I sot up with my hands 'hind uv me 'n the wagin. I kep' 'em there tight 'n' stiff, es ef the iron wus holdin' uv 'em. Could n't git no chance t' say nuthin' t' Ray. Hustled us upstairs, 'n' when we come in t' thet air big room they tuk him one way an' me 'nother.

"Didn't hev no idee where I wus. Felt 'em run a chain through my arms, careful, efter they sot me down. I sot still fer mebbe five minutes. Seemed so ev'rybody'd gone out o' the place. Could n't hear nuthin' nowhere. I le' down the chain jest es ca-areful es I could, 'n' tuk off the blindfold. 'Twas all dark; could n't see my hand afore me. Crep' 'long the floor. See 't was covered with sawdust. Tuk off m' boots, 'n' got up on m' feet, 'n' walked careful. Did n' dast holler t' Ray. Cal'lated when the squabble come I 'd be ready t' dew business. All t' once I felt a slant 'n the floor. 'T was kind o' slip'ry, 'n' I begun t' slide. Feet went out from under me 'n' sot me down quick. Tried t' ketch holt o' suthin'. Could n't hang on; kep' goin' faster. Fust I knew I 'd slid int' some kind uv a box. Let me down quicker 'n scat over thet air grease a little ways. I out with my tew hands 'n' bore ag'in' the sides o' th' box powerful 'n' stopped myself. Then I up with these here feet o' mine. See the top o' the box wa'n't much more 'n a foot above me. Tried t' crawl up ag'in. Couldn't mek it. Dum thing slanted luk Tup's Hill. Hung on awhile, cipherin' es hard es I knew how. Hearn suthin' go kerslap. Seem so the hull place trembled. Raised up my head, 'n' peeked over my stumick down the box. A bar o' light stuck in away down. Let myself go careful till I c'u'd see my nose in it. Then I got over on my shoulder 'n' braced on the sides o' the box, back 'g'in' one side 'n' knees 'g'in' t'other. See 't was a knot-hole where the light come in, 'bout es big es a man's wrist. Peeked through, 'n' see a lot o' lights 'n' folks, 'n' hearn 'em talkin'. Ray he stud on a platform facin' a big, powerful-lookin' cuss. Hed their coats 'n' vests off, 'n' sleeves rolled up, 'n' swords ready. See there wus goin' t' be a fight. Hed t' snicker—wa'n' no way I c'u'd help it, fer, Judas Priest! I knew dum well they wa'n't a single one of them air Britishers c'u'd stan' 'fore 'im. Thet air mis'able spindlin' devil I tol' ye 'bout—feller et hed the women—he stud back o' Ray. Hed his hand up luk thet. 'Fight!' he says, 'n' they got t' work, 'n' the crowd begun t' jam up 'n' holler. The big feller he come et Ray es ef he wus goin' t' cut him in tew. Ray he tuk it easy 'n' rassled the sword of the big chap round 'n' round es ef it wus tied t' hisn. Fust I knew he med a quick lunge 'n' pricked 'im 'n the arm. Big chap wus a leetle shy then. Did n't come up t' the scratch es smart 'n' sassy es he'd orter. Ray he went efter 'im hammer 'n' tongs. Thet air long slim waist o' hisn swayed 'n' bent luk a stalk o' barley. He did luk joemightyful han'some—wish 't ye c'u'd 'a' seen 'im thet air night. Hair wus jest es shiny es gold 'n the light o' them candles. He 'd feint, an' t' other 'd dodge. Judas Priest! seemed so he put the p'int o' the sword all over thet air big cuss. C'u'd 'a' killed 'im a dozen times, but I see he did n't want t' dew it. Kep' prickin' 'im ev'ry lunge 'n' druv 'im off the boards—tumbled 'im head over heels int' the crowd. Them air devils threw up their hats 'n' stomped 'n' hollered powerful, es ef 't were mighty fun t' see a man cut t' pieces. Wall, they tuk up another man, quicker 'n the fust, but he wa'n' nowhere near s' big 'n' cordy. Wa'n't only one crack o' the swords in thet air fight. Could n't hardly say Jack Robinson 'fore the cuss hed fell. Ray hurt him bad, I guess, for they hed t' pick 'im up 'n' carry 'im off luk a baby. Guess the boy see 't he hed a good many to lick, 'n' hed n't better waste no power a-foolin'. All t' once thet air low-lived, spindlin', mis'able devil he come t' the edge o' the platform 'n' helt up his hand. Soon 's they stopped yellin' he says; 'Gentlemen,' he says, 'sorry t' tell ye thet the man fer the next bout hes got away. We left him securely fastened up 'n the fust chamber. Have hed the building searched, but ain't able t' find him. He must hev gone down the slide. I am sorry to say we hev no more Yankees. If this man fights any more it will hev t' be a Britisher thet goes ag'in' 'im. Is there a volunteer?'

"Ray he runs up 'n' says suthin' right 'n his ear. Could n't hear whut 'twus. Did n' set well. T' other feller he flew mad, 'n' Ray he fetched 'im a cuff, luk thet, with the back uv his hand. Ye see, he did n' know he hed been a-fightin' Yankees, 'n' he did n' like the idee. 'Gentlemen,' says he, 'I 'll fight anybody, but ef this chap ain't a coward, he 'll fight me himself.' T'other feller he off with his coat 'n' vest es quick es a flash 'n' picked up a sword. 'Fight, then, ye cub!' says he; an' they flew at each other hell bent fer 'lection. He wa'n' no fool with a sword, nuther, I can tell ye, thet air spindlin' cuss. I see Ray hed his han's full. But he wus jest es cool es a green cowcumber, eggzac'ly. Kep' a-cuffin' t' other sword, 'n' let 'im hit 'n' lunge 'n' feint es much es he pleased. See he wus jest a-gettin' his measure, 'n' I knew suthin' wus goin' t' happen purty quick. Fust I knew he ketched Ray by the shirtsleeve with the p'int uv 'is sword 'n' ripped it t' the collar. Scairt me so I bit my tongue watchin' uv 'em. They got locked, 'n' both swords came up t' the hilts t'gether with a swish 'n' a bang luk thet. The blades clung, 'n' they backed off. Then Ray he begun t' feint 'n' lunge 'n' hustle 'im. Quicker 'n scat he gin 'im an awful prick 'n the shoulder. I c'u'd see the blood come, but they kep' a-goin' back 'n' forth 'n' up 'n' down desperit. The red streak on thet air feller's shirt kep' a-growin'. Purty quick one side uv 'im wus red an' t' other white. See he wus gettin' weaker 'n' weaker. Ray c'u'd 'a' split 'im t' the navel ef he'd only hed a min' tew. All t' once he med a jab at Ray, 'n' threw up 'is han's, 'n' went back a step er tew, luk a boss with th' blin' staggers, 'n' tumbled head over heels in thet air open grave. There wus hell t' pay fer a minute. Lot on 'em clim' over the row o' lights, yellin' luk wildcats, 'n' hauled thet air mis'able cuss out o' the grave, 'n' stud 'im up, 'n' gin 'im a drink o' liquor. In half a minute he up with his han'kerchief 'n' waved it over 'is head t' mek 'em keep still. Soon 's they wus quiet he up 'n' he says: 'Gentlemen,' says he, 'this 'ere chap hes stood the test o' the sword. Are ye satisfied?' 'We are,' says they—ev'ry British son uv a gun they wus there up 'n' hollered, 'Then,' says he, 'giv' 'im th' slide.'

"Ray he put down 'is sword 'n' picked up 'is coat 'n' vest. Then they grabbed th' lights, 'n' thet 's th' last I see on' em there. Purty quick 'twus all dark. Hearn 'em comin' upstairs 'n goin' 'cross th' floor over my head. 'Gun t' think o' myself a leetle bit then. Knowed I was in thet air slide, an' hed t' le' go purty quick. Hed n't no idee where it went tew, but I cal'lated I wus middlin' sure t' know 'fore long. Knowed when I le' go I wus goin' t' dew some tall slippin' over thet air greased bottom. See a light come down th' box 'n a minute. Hearn somebody speakin' there et the upper end.

"'This 'ere's th' las' test o' yer courage,' says a man, says he; 'few comes here alive 'n' sound es you be. Ye wus a doomed man. Ye 'd hev been shot at daylight, but we gin ye a chance fer yer life. So fur ye 've proved yerself wuthy. Ef ye hold yer courage, ye may yit live. Ef ye flinch, ye 'll land in heaven. Ef yer life is spared, remember how we honor courage.'

"Then they gin 'im a shove, 'n' I hearn 'im a-comin'. I flopped over 'n' le' go. Shot away luk a streak o' lightnin'. Dum thing grew steeper 'n' steeper. Jes' hel' up my ban's 'n' let 'er go lickitty split. Jerushy Jane Pepper! jes' luk comin' down a greased pole. Come near tekin' my breath away—did sart'n. Went out o' thet air thing luk a bullet eggzac'ly. Shot int' the air feet foremust. Purty fair slidin' up in the air 'most anywheres, ye know. Alwus come down by the nighest way. 'T was darker 'n pitch; could n't see a thing, nut a thing. Hearn Ray come out o' the box 'bove me. Then I come down k'slap in th' water 'n' sunk. Thought I 'd never stop goin' down. 'Fore I come up I hearn Ray rip int' th' water nigh me. I come up 'n' shook my head, 'n' waited. Judas Priest! thought he wus drownded, sart'n. Seemed so I 'd bust out 'n' cry there 'n th' water waitin' fer thet air boy. Soon es I hearn a flop I hed my han's on 'im.

"'Who be you?' says he.

"'D'ri,' says I.

"'Tired out,' says he; 'can't swim a stroke. Guess I 'll hev t' go t' th' bottom.'"



XV

D'ri's narrative was the talk of the garrison. Those who heard the telling, as I did not, were fond of quoting its odd phrases, and of describing how D'ri would thrust and parry with his jack-knife in the story of the bouts.

The mystery of that plunge into darkness and invisible water was a trial to my nerves the like of which I had never suffered. After they had pulled his Lordship out of the grave, and I knew there would be no more fighting, I began to feel the strain he had put upon me. He was not so strong as D'ri, but I had never stood before a quicker man. His blade was as full of life and cunning as a cat's paw, and he tired me. When I went under water I felt sure it was all over, for I was sick and faint. I had been thinking of D'ri in that quick descent. I wondered if he was the man who had got away and gone down the slide. I was not the less amazed, however, to feel his strong hand upon me as I came up. I knew nothing for a time. D'ri has told me often how he bore me up in rapid water until he came into an eddy where he could touch bottom. There, presently, I got back my senses and stood leaning on his broad shoulder awhile. A wind was blowing, and we could hear a boat jumping in the ripples near by. We could see nothing, it was so dark, but D'ri left me, feeling his way slowly, and soon found the boat. He whistled to me, and I made my way to him. There were oars in the bottom of the boat. D'ri helped me in, where I lay back with a mighty sense of relief. Then he hauled in a rope and anchor, and shoved off. The boat, overrunning the flow in a moment, shot away rapidly. I could feel it take headway as we clove the murmuring waters. D'ri set the oars and helped it on. I lay awhile thinking of all the blood and horror in that black night—like a dream of evil that leads through dim regions of silence into the shadow of death. I thought of the hinted peril of the slide that was to be the punishment of poor courage.

D'ri had a plausible theory of the slide. He said that if we had clung to the sides of it to break our speed we 'd have gone down like a plummet and shattered our bones on a rocky shore. Coming fast, our bodies leaped far into the air and fell to deep water. How long I lay there thinking, as I rested, I have no satisfactory notion. Louise and Louison came into my thoughts, and a plan of rescue. A rush of cavalry and reeking swords, a dash for the boats, with a flying horse under each fair lady, were in that moving vision. But where should we find them? for I knew not the name of that country out of which we had come by ways of darkness and peril. The old query came to me, If I had to choose between them, which should I take? There was as much of the old doubt in me as ever. For a verity, I loved them both, and would die for either. I opened my eyes at last, and, rising, my hands upon the gunwales, could dimly see the great shoulders of D'ri swaying back and forth as he rowed. The coming dawn had shot an arrow into the great, black sphere of night, cracking it from circumference to core, and floods of light shortly came pouring in, sweeping down bridges of darkness, gates of gloom, and massy walls of shadow. We were in the middle of a broad river—the St. Lawrence, we knew, albeit the shores were unfamiliar to either of us. The sunlight stuck in the ripples, and the breeze fanned them into flowing fire. The morning lighted the green hills of my native land with a mighty splendor. A new life and a great joy came to me as I filled my lungs with the sweet air. D'ri pulled into a cove, and neither could speak for a little. He turned, looking out upon the river, and brushed a tear off his brown cheek.

"No use talking" said he, in a low tone, as the bow hit the shore, "ain' no country luk this 'un, don' care where ye go."

As the oars lay still, we could hear in the far timber a call of fife and drum. Listening, we heard the faint familiar strains of "Yankee Doodle." We came ashore in silence, and I hugged the nearest tree, and was not able to say the "Thank God!" that fell from my lips only half spoken.



XVI

We got our bearings, a pair of boots for D'ri, and a hearty meal in the cabin of a settler. The good man was unfamiliar with the upper shore, and we got no help in our mystery. Starting west, in the woods, on our way to the Harbor, we stopped here and there to listen, but heard only wood-thrush and partridge—the fife and drum of nature. That other music had gone out of hearing. We had no compass, but D'ri knew the forest as a crow knows the air. He knew the language of the trees and the brooks. The feel of the bark and what he called "the lean of the timber" told him which way was south. River and stream had a way of telling him whence they had come and where they were going, but he had no understanding of a map. I remember, after we had come to the Harbor at dusk and told our story, the general asked him to indicate our landing-place and our journey home on a big map at headquarters. D'ri studied the map a brief while. There was a look of embarrassment on his sober face.

"Seems so we come ashore 'bout here," said he, dropping the middle finger of his right hand in the vicinity of Quebec. "Then we travelled aw-a-a-ay hellwards over 'n this 'ere direction." With that illuminating remark he had slid his finger over some two hundred leagues of country from Quebec to Michigan.

They met us with honest joy and no little surprise that evening as we came into camp. Ten of our comrades had returned, but as for ourselves, they thought us in for a long stay. We said little of what we had gone through, outside the small office at headquarters, but somehow it began to travel, passing quickly from mouth to mouth, until it got to the newspapers and began to stir the tongue of each raw recruit. General Brown was there that evening, and had for me, as always, the warm heart of a father. He heard our report with a kindly sympathy.

Next morning I rode away to see the Comte de Chaumont at Leraysville. I had my life, and a great reason to be thankful, but there were lives dearer than my own to me, and they were yet in peril. Those dear faces haunted me and filled my sleep with trouble. I rode fast, reaching the chateau at luncheon time. The count was reading in a rustic chair at the big gate. He came running to me, his face red with excitement.

"M'sieur le Capitaine!" he cried, my hand in both of his, "I thought you were dead."

"And so I have been—dead as a cat drowned in a well, that turns up again as lively as ever. Any news of the baroness and the young ladies?"

"A letter," said he. "Come, get off your horse. I shall read to you the letter."

"Tell me—how were they taken?"

I was leading my horse, and we were walking through the deep grove.

"Eh bien, I am not able to tell," said he, shaking his head soberly. "You remember that morning—well, I have twenty men there for two days. They are armed, they surround the Hermitage, they keep a good watch. The wasp he is very troublesome, but they see no soldier. They stay, they burn the smudge. By and by I think there is nothing to fear, and I bring them home, but I leave three men. The baroness and the two girls and their servants they stay awhile to pack the trunk. They are coming to the chateau. It is in the evening; the coach is at the door; the servants have started. Suddenly—the British! I do not know how many. They come out of the woods like a lightning, and bang! bang! bang! they have killed my men. They take the baroness and the Misses de Lambert, and they drive away with them. The servants they hear the shots, they return, they come, and they tell us. We follow. We find the coach; it is in the road, by the north trail. Dieu! they are all gone! We travel to the river, but—" here he lifted his shoulders and shook his head dolefully—"we could do nothing."

"The general may let me go after them with a force of cavalry," I said. "I want you to come with me and talk to him."

"No, no, my capitaine!" said he; "it would not be wise. We must wait. We do not know where they are. I have friends in Canada; they are doing their best, and when we hear from them—eh bien, we shall know what is necessary."

I told him how I had met them that night in Canada, and what came of it.

"They are a cruel people, the English," said he. "I am afraid to find them will be a matter of great difficulty."

"But the letter—"

"Ah, the letter," he interrupted, feeling in his pocket. "The letter is not much. It is from Tiptoes—from Louison. It was mailed this side of the river at Morristown. You shall see; they do not know where they are."

He handed me the letter. I read it with an eagerness I could not conceal. It went as follows:—

"MY DEAR COUNT: If this letter reaches you, it will, I hope, relieve your anxiety. We are alive and well, but where? I am sure I have no better idea than if I were a baby just born. We came here with our eyes covered after a long ride from the river, which we crossed in the night. I think it must have taken us three days to come here. We are shut up in a big house with high walls and trees and gardens around it—a beautiful place. We have fine beds and everything to eat, only we miss the bouillabaisse, and the jokes of M. Pidgeon, and the fine old claret. A fat Englishwoman who waddles around like a big goose and who calls me Mumm (as if I were a wine-maker!) waits upon us. We do not know the name of our host. He is a tall man who says little and has hair on his neck and on the back of his hands. Dieu! he is a lord who talks as if he were too lazy to breathe. It is 'Your Lordship this' and 'Your Lordship that.' But I must speak well of him, because he is going to read this letter: it is on that condition I am permitted to write. Therefore I say he is a great and good man, a beautiful man. The baroness and Louise send love to all. Madame says do not worry; we shall come out all right: but I say worry! and, good man, do not cease to worry until we are safe home. Tell the cure he has something to do now. I have worn out my rosary, and am losing faith. Tell him to try his.

"Your affectionate "LOUISON."

"She is an odd girl," said the count, as I gave back the letter, "so full of fun, so happy, so bright, so quick—always on her tiptoes. Come, you are tired; you have ridden far in the dust. I shall make you glad to be here."

A groom took my horse, and the count led me down a wooded slope to the lakeside. Octagonal water-houses, painted white, lay floating at anchor near us. He rowed me to one of them for a bath. Inside was a rug and a table and soap and linen. A broad panel on a side of the floor came up as I pulled a cord, showing water clear and luminous to the sandy lake-bottom. The glow of the noonday filled the lake to its shores, and in a moment I clove the sunlit depths—a rare delight after my long, hot ride.

At luncheon we talked of the war, and he made much complaint of the Northern army, as did everybody those days.

"My boy," said he, "you should join Perry on the second lake. It is your only chance to fight, to win glory."

He told me then of the impending battle and of Perry's great need of men. I had read of the sea-fighting and longed for a part in it. To climb on hostile decks and fight hand to hand was a thing to my fancy. Ah, well! I was young then. At the count's table that day I determined to go, if I could get leave.

Therese and a young Parisienne, her friend, were at luncheon with us. They bade us adieu and went away for a gallop as we took cigars. We had no sooner left the dining room than I called for my horse. Due at the Harbor that evening, I could give myself no longer to the fine hospitality of the count. In a few moments I was bounding over the road, now cool in deep forest shadows. A little way on I overtook Therese and the Parisienne. The former called to me as I passed. I drew rein, coming back and stopping beside her. The other went on at a walk.

"M'sieur le Capitaine, have you any news of them—of Louise and Louison?" she inquired. "You and my father were so busy talking I could not ask you before."

"I know this only: they are in captivity somewhere, I cannot tell where."

"You look worried, M'sieur le Capitaine; you have not the happy face, the merry look, any longer. In June you were a boy, in August—voila! it is a man! Perhaps you are preparing for the ministry."

She assumed a solemn look, glancing up at me as if in mockery of my sober face. She was a slim, fine brunette, who, as I knew, had long been a confidante of Louison.

"Alas! ma'm'selle, I am worried. I have no longer any peace."

"Do you miss them?" she inquired, a knowing look in her handsome eyes. "Do not think me impertinent."

"More than I miss my mother," I said.

"I have a letter," said she, smiling. "I do not know—I thought I should show it to you, but—but not to-day."

"Is it from them?"

"It is from Louison—from Tiptoes."

"And—and it speaks of me?"

"Ah, m'sieur," said she, arching her brows, "it has indeed much to say of you."

"And—and may I not see it?" I asked eagerly. "Ma'm'selle, I tell you I—I must see it."

"Why?" She stirred the mane of her horse with a red riding-whip.

"Why not?" I inquired, my heart beating fast.

"If I knew—if I were justified—you know I am her friend. I know all her secrets."

"Will you not be my friend also?" I interrupted.

"A friend of Louison, he is mine," said she.

"Ah, ma'm'selle, then I confess to you—it is because I love her."

"I knew it; I am no fool," was her answer. "But I had to hear it from you. It is a remarkable thing to do, but they are in such peril. I think you ought to know."

She took the letter from her bosom, passing it to my hand. A faint odor of violets came with it. It read:—

"MY DEAR THERESE: I wish I could see you, if only for an hour. I have so much to say. I have written your father of our prison home. I am going to write you of my troubles. You know what we were talking about the last time I saw you—myself and that handsome fellow. Mon Dieu! I shall not name him. It is not necessary. Well, you were right, my dear. I was a fool; I laughed at your warning; I did not know the meaning of that delicious pain. But oh, my dear friend, it has become a terrible thing since I know I may never see him again. My heart is breaking with it. Mere de Dieu! I can no longer laugh or jest or pretend to be happy. What shall I say? That I had rather die than live without him? No; that is not enough. I had rather be an old maid and live only with the thought of him than marry another, if he were a king. I remember those words of yours, 'I know he loves you.' Oh, my dear Therese, what a comfort they are to me now! I repeat them often. If I could only say, 'I know'! Alas! I can but say, 'I do not know,' nay, even, 'I do not believe.' If I had not been a fool I should have made him tell me, for I had him over his ears in love with me one day, or I am no judge of a man. But, you know, they are so fickle! And then the Yankee girls are pretty and so clever. Well, they shall not have him if I can help it. When I return there shall be war, if necessary, between France and America. And, Therese, you know I have weapons, and you have done me the honor to say I know how to use them. I have told Louise, and—what do you think?—the poor thing cried an hour—for pity of me! As ever, she makes my trouble her own. I have been selfish always, but I know the cure. It is love—toujours l'amour. Now I think only of him, and he recalls you and your sweet words. God make you a true prophet! With love to you and the marquis, I kiss each line, praying for happiness for you and for him. Believe me as ever,

"Your affectionate "LOUISON.

"P.S. I feel better now I have told you. I wonder what his Lordship will say. Poor thing! he will read this; he will think me a fool. Eh bien, I have no better thought of him. He can put me under lock and key, but he shall not imprison my secrets; and, if they bore him, he should not read my letters. L."

I read it thrice, and held it for a moment to my lips. Every word stung me with the sweet pain that afflicted its author. I could feel my cheeks burning.

"Ma'm'selle, pardon me; it is not I she refers to. She does not say whom."

"Surely," said Therese, flirting her whip and lifting her shoulders. "M'sieur Le Capitaine is never a stupid man. You—you should say something very nice now."

"If it is I—thank God! Her misery is my delight, her liberation my one purpose."

"And my congratulations," said she, giving me her hand. "She has wit and beauty, a true heart, a great fortune, and—good luck in having your love."

I raised my hat, blushing to the roots of my hair.

"It is a pretty compliment," I said. "And—and I have no gift of speech to thank you. I am not a match for you except in my love of kindness and—and of Louison. You have made me happier than I have been before."

"If I have made you alert, ingenious, determined, I am content," was her answer. "I know you have courage."

"And will to use it."

"Good luck and adieu!" said she, with a fine flourish of her whip; those people had always a pretty politeness of manner.

"Adieu," I said, lifting my hat as I rode off, with a prick of the spur, for the road was long and I had lost quite half an hour.

My elation gave way to sober thought presently. I began to think of Louise—that quiet, frank, noble, beautiful, great-hearted girl, who might be suffering what trouble I knew not, and all silently, there in her prison home. A sadness grew in me, and then suddenly I saw the shadow of great trouble. I loved them both; I knew not which I loved the better. Yet this interview had almost committed me to Louison.



XVII

Orders came shortly from the War Department providing a detail to go and help man the guns of Perry at Put-in Bay. I had the honor of leading them on the journey and turning them over to the young Captain. I could not bear to be lying idle at the garrison. A thought of those in captivity was with me night and day, but I could do nothing for them. I had had a friendly talk with General Brown. He invited and received my confidence touching the tender solicitude I was unable to cover. I laid before him the plan of an expedition. He smiled, puffing a cigar thoughtfully.

"Reckless folly, Bell," said he, after a moment. "You are young and lucky. If you were flung in the broad water there with a millstone tied to your neck, I should not be surprised to see you turn up again. My young friend, to start off with no destination but Canada is too much even for you. We have no men to waste. Wait; a rusting sabre is better than a hole in the heart. There will be good work for you in a few days, I hope."

And there was—the job of which I have spoken, that came to me through his kind offices. We set sail in a schooner one bright morning,—D'ri and I and thirty others,—bound for Two-Mile Creek. Horses were waiting for us there. We mounted them, and made the long journey overland—a ride through wood and swale on a road worn by the wagons of the emigrant, who, even then, was pushing westward to the fertile valleys of Ohio. It was hard travelling, but that was the heyday of my youth, and the bird music, and the many voices of a waning summer in field and forest, were somehow in harmony with the great song of my heart. In the middle of the afternoon of September 6, we came to the Bay, and pulled up at headquarters, a two-story frame building on a high shore. There were wooded islands in the offing, and between them we could see the fleet—nine vessels, big and little.

I turned over the men, who were taken to the ships immediately and put under drill. Surgeon Usher of the Lawrence and a young midshipman rowed me to Gibraltar Island, well out in the harbor, where the surgeon presented me to Perry—a tall, shapely man, with dark hair and eyes, and ears hidden by heavy tufts of beard. He stood on a rocky point high above the water, a glass to his eye, looking seaward. His youth surprised me: he was then twenty-eight. I had read much of him and was looking for an older man. He received me kindly: he had a fine dignity and gentle manners. Somewhere he had read of that scrape of mine—the last one there among the Avengers. He gave my hand a squeeze and my sword a compliment I have not yet forgotten, assuring me of his pleasure that I was to be with him awhile. The greeting over, we rowed away to the Lawrence. She was chopping lazily at anchor in a light breeze, her sails loose. Her crew cheered their commander as we came under the frowning guns.

"They 're tired of waiting," said he; "they 're looking for business when I come aboard."

He showed me over the clean decks: it was all as clean as a Puritan parlor.

"Captain," said he, "tie yourself to that big bow gun. It's the modern sling of David, only its pebble is big as a rock. Learn how to handle it, and you may take a fling at the British some day."

He put D'ri in my squad, as I requested, leaving me with the gunners. I went to work at once, and knew shortly how to handle the big machine. D'ri and I convinced the captain with no difficulty that we were fit for a fight so soon as it might come.

It came sooner than we expected. The cry of "Sail ho!" woke me early one morning. It was the 10th of September. The enemy was coming. Sails were sticking out of the misty dawn a few miles away. In a moment our decks were black and noisy with the hundred and two that manned the vessel. It was every hand to rope and windlass then. Sails went up with a snap all around us, and the creak of blocks sounded far and near. In twelve minutes we were under way, leading the van to battle. The sun came up, lighting the great towers of canvas. Every vessel was now feeling for the wind, some with oars and sweeps to aid them. A light breeze came out of the southwest. Perry stood near me, his hat in his hand. He was looking back at the Niagara.

"Run to the leeward of the islands," said he to the sailing-master.

"Then you 'll have to fight to the leeward," said the latter.

"Don't care, so long as we fight," said Perry. "Windward or leeward, we want to fight."

Then came the signal to change our course. The wind shifting to the southeast, we were all able to clear the islands and keep the weather-gage. A cloud came over the sun; far away the mist thickened. The enemy wallowed to the topsails, and went out of sight. We had lost the wind. Our sails went limp; flag and pennant hung lifeless. A light rain drizzled down, breaking the smooth plane of water into crowding rings and bubbles. Perry stood out in the drizzle as we lay waiting. All eyes were turning to the sky and to Perry. He had a look of worry and disgust. He was out for a quarrel, though the surgeon said he was in more need of physic, having the fever of malaria as well as that of war. He stood there, tall and handsome, in a loose jacket of blue nankeen, with no sign of weakness in him, his eyes flashing as he looked up at the sky.

D'ri and I stood in the squad at the bow gun. D'ri was wearing an old straw hat; his flannel shirt was open at the collar.

"Ship stan's luk an ol' cow chawin' 'er cud," said he, looking off at the weather. "They's a win' comin' over there. It 'll give 'er a slap 'n th' side purty soon, mebbe. Then she 'll switch 'er tail 'n' go on 'bout 'er business."

In a moment we heard a roaring cheer back amidships. Perry had come up the companionway with his blue battle-flag. He held it before him at arm's-length. I could see a part of its legend, in white letters, "Don't give up the ship."

"My brave lads," he shouted, "shall we hoist it?"

Our "Ay, ay, sir!" could have been heard a mile away, and the flag rose, above tossing hats and howling voices, to the mainroyal masthead.

The wind came; we could hear the sails snap and stiffen as it overhauled the fleet behind us. In a jiffy it bunted our own hull and canvas, and again we began to plough the water. It grew into a smart breeze, and scattered the fleet of clouds that hovered over us. The rain passed; sunlight sparkled on the rippling plane of water. We could now see the enemy; he had hove to, and was waiting for us in a line. A crowd was gathering on the high shores we had left to see the battle. We were well in advance, crowding our canvas in a good breeze. I could hear only the roaring furrows of water on each side of the prow. Every man of us held his tongue, mentally trimming ship, as they say, for whatever might come. Three men scuffed by, sanding the decks. D'ri was leaning placidly over the big gun. He looked off at the white line, squinted knowingly, and spat over the bulwarks. Then he straightened up, tilting his hat to his right ear.

"They 're p'intin' their guns," said a swabber.

"Fust they know they'll git spit on," said D'ri, calmly.

Well, for two hours it was all creeping and talking under the breath, and here and there an oath as some nervous chap tightened the ropes of his resolution. Then suddenly, as we swung about, a murmur went up and down the deck. We could see with our naked eyes the men who were to give us battle. Perry shouted sternly to some gunners who thought it high time to fire. Then word came: there would be no firing until we got close. Little gusts of music came chasing over the water faint-footed to our decks—a band playing "Rule Britannia." I was looking at a brig in the line of the enemy when a bolt of fire leaped out of her and thick belches of smoke rushed to her topsails. Then something hit the sea near by a great hissing slap, and we turned quickly to see chunks of the shattered lake surface fly up in nets of spray and fall roaring on our deck. We were all drenched there at the bow gun. I remember some of those water-drops had the sting of hard-flung pebbles, but we only bent our heads, waiting eagerly for the word to fire.

"We was th' ones 'at got spit on," said a gunner, looking at D'ri.

"Wish they'd let us holler back," said the latter, placidly. "Sick o' holdin' in."

We kept fanning down upon the enemy, now little more than a mile away, signalling the fleet to follow.

"My God! see there!" a gunner shouted.

The British line had turned into a reeling, whirling ridge of smoke lifting over spurts of flame at the bottom. We knew what was coming. Untried in the perils of shot and shell, some of my gunners stooped to cover under the bulwarks.

"Pull 'em out o' there," I called, turning to D'ri, who stood beside me.

The storm of iron hit us. A heavy ball crashed into the after bulwarks, tearing them away and slamming over gun and carriage, that slid a space, grinding the gunners under it. One end of a bowline whipped over us; a jib dropped; a brace fell crawling over my shoulders like a big snake; the foremast went into splinters a few feet above the deck, its top falling over, its canvas sagging in great folds. It was all the work of a second. That hasty flight of iron, coming out of the air, thick as a flock of pigeons, had gone through hull and rigging in a wink of the eye. And a fine mess it had made.

Men lay scattered along the deck, bleeding, yelling, struggling. There were two lying near us with blood spurting out of their necks. One rose upon a knee, choking horribly, shaken with the last throes of his flooded heart, and reeled over. The Scorpion of our fleet had got her guns in action; the little Ariel was also firing. D'ri leaned over, shouting in my ear.

"Don't like th' way they 're whalin' uv us," he said, his cheeks red with anger.

"Nor I," was my answer.

"Don't like t' stan' here an' dew nuthin' but git licked," he went on. "'T ain' no way nat'ral."

Perry came hurrying forward.

"Fire!" he commanded, with a quick gesture, and we began to warm up our big twenty-pounder there in the bow. But the deadly scuds of iron kept flying over and upon our deck, bursting into awful showers of bolt and chain and spike and hammerheads. We saw shortly that our brig was badly out of gear. She began to drift to leeward, and being unable to aim at the enemy, we could make no use of the bow gun. Every brace and bowline cut away, her canvas torn to rags, her hull shot through, and half her men dead or wounded, she was, indeed, a sorry sight. The Niagara went by on the safe side of us, heedless of our plight. Perry stood near, cursing as he looked off at her. Two of my gunners had been hurt by bursting canister. D'ri and I picked them up, and made for the cockpit. D'ri's man kept howling and kicking. As we hurried over the bloody deck, there came a mighty crash beside us and a burst of old iron that tumbled me to my knees.

A cloud of smoke covered us. I felt the man I bore struggle and then go limp in my arms; I felt my knees getting warm and wet. The smoke rose; the tall, herculean back of D'ri was just ahead of me. His sleeve had been ripped away from shoulder to elbow, and a spray of blood from his upper arm was flying back upon me. His hat crown had been torn off, and there was a big rent in his trousers, but he kept going, I saw my man had been killed in my arms by a piece of chain, buried to its last link in his breast. I was so confused by the shock of it all that I had not the sense to lay him down, but followed D'ri to the cockpit. He stumbled on the stairs, falling heavily with his burden. Then I dropped my poor gunner and helped them carry D'ri to a table, where they bade me lie down beside him.

"It is no time for jesting," said I, with some dignity.

"My dear fellow," the surgeon answered, "your wound is no jest. You are not fit for duty."

I looked down at the big hole in my trousers and the cut in my thigh, of which I had known nothing until then. I had no sooner seen it and the blood than I saw that I also was in some need of repair, and lay down with a quick sense of faintness. My wound was no pretty thing to see, but was of little consequence, a missile having torn the surface only. I was able to help Surgeon Usher as he caught the severed veins and bathed the bloody strands of muscle in D'ri's arm, while another dressed my thigh. That room was full of the wounded, some lying on the floor, some standing, some stretched upon cots and tables. Every moment they were crowding down the companionway with others. The cannonading was now so close and heavy that it gave me an ache in the ears, but above its quaking thunder I could hear the shrill cries of men sinking to hasty death in the grip of pain. The brig was in sore distress, her timbers creaking, snapping, quivering, like one being beaten to death, his bones cracking, his muscles pulping under heavy blows. We were above water-line there in the cockpit; we could feel her flinch and stagger. On her side there came suddenly a crushing blow, as if some great hammer, swung far in the sky, had come down upon her. I could hear the split and break of heavy timbers; I could see splinters flying over me in a rush of smoke, and the legs of a man go bumping on the beams above. Then came another crash of timbers on the port side. I leaped off the table and ran, limping, to the deck, I do not know why; I was driven by some quick and irresistible impulse. I was near out of my head, anyway, with the rage of battle in me and no chance to fight. Well, suddenly, I found myself stumbling, with drawn sabre, over heaps of the hurt and dead there on our reeking deck. It was a horrible place: everything tipped over, man and gun and mast and bulwark. The air was full of smoke, but near me I could see a topsail of the enemy. Balls were now plunging in the water alongside, the spray drenching our deck. Some poor man lying low among the dead caught me by the boot-leg with an appealing gesture. I took hold of his collar, dragging him to the cockpit. The surgeon had just finished with D'ri. His arm was now in sling and bandages. He was lying on his back, the good arm over his face. There was a lull in the cannonading. I went quickly to his side.

"How are you feeling?" I asked, giving his hand a good grip.

"Nuthin' t' brag uv," he answered. "Never see nobody git hell rose with 'em s' quick es we did—never."

Just then we heard the voice of Perry. He stood on the stairs calling into the cockpit.

"Can any wounded man below there pull a rope?" he shouted.

D'ri was on his feet in a jiffy, and we were both clambering to the deck as another scud of junk went over us. Perry was trying, with block and tackle, to mount a carronade. A handful of men were helping him, D'ri rushed to the ropes, I following, and we both pulled with a will. A sailor who had been hit in the legs hobbled up, asking for room on the rope. I told him he could be of no use, but he spat an oath, and pointing at my leg, which was now bleeding, swore he was sounder than I, and put up his fists to prove it. I have seen no better show of pluck in all my fighting, nor any that ever gave me a greater pride of my own people and my country. War is a great evil, I begin to think, but there is nothing finer than the sight of a man who, forgetting himself, rushes into the shadow of death for the sake of something that is better. At every heave on the rope our blood came out of us, until a ball shattered a pulley, and the gun fell. Perry had then a fierce look, but his words were cool, his manner dauntless. He peered through lifting clouds of smoke at our line. He stood near me, and his head was bare. He crossed the littered deck, his battle-flag and broad pennant that an orderly had brought him trailing from his shoulder. He halted by a boat swung at the davits on the port side—the only one that had not gone to splinters. There he called a crew about him, and all got quickly aboard the boat—seven besides the younger brother of Captain Perry —and lowered it. Word flew that he was leaving to take command of the sister brig, the Niagara, which lay off a quarter of a mile or so from where we stood. We all wished to go, but he would have only sound men; there were not a dozen on the ship who had all their blood in them. As they pulled away, Perry standing in the stern, D'ri lifted a bloody, tattered flag, and leaning from the bulwarks, shook it over them, cheering loudly.

"Give 'em hell!" he shouted. "We 'll tek care o' the ol' brig."



We were all crying, we poor devils that were left behind. One, a mere boy, stood near me swinging his hat above his head, cheering. Hat and hand fell to the deck as I turned to him. He was reeling, when D'ri caught him quickly with his good arm and bore him to the cockpit.

The little boat was barely a length off when heavy shot fell splashing in her wake. Soon they were dropping all around her. One crossed her bow, ripping a long furrow in the sea. A chip flew off her stern; a lift of splinters from an oar scattered behind her. Plunging missiles marked her course with a plait of foam, but she rode on bravely. We saw her groping under the smoke clouds; we saw her nearing the other brig, and were all on tiptoe. The air cleared a little, and we could see them ship oars and go up the side. Then we set our blood dripping with cheers again, we who were wounded there on the deck of the Lawrence. Lieutenant Yarnell ordered her one flag down. As it sank fluttering, we groaned. Our dismay went quickly from man to man. Presently we could hear the cries of the wounded there below. A man came staggering out of the cockpit, and fell to his hands and knees, creeping toward us and protesting fiercely, the blood dripping from his mouth between curses.

"Another shot would sink her," Yarnell shouted.

"Let 'er sink, d—n 'er," said D'ri. "Wish t' God I c'u'd put my foot through 'er bottom. When the flag goes down I wan't' go tew."

The British turned their guns; we were no longer in the smoky paths of thundering canister. The Niagara was now under fire. We could see the dogs of war rushing at her in leashes of flame and smoke. Our little gun-boats, urged by oar and sweep, were hastening to the battle front. We could see their men, waist-high above bulwarks, firing as they came. The Detroit and the Queen Charlotte, two heavy brigs of the British line, had run afoul of each other. The Niagara, signalling for close action, bore down upon them. Crossing the bow of one ship and the stern of the other, she raked them with broadsides. We saw braces fly and masts fall in the volley. The Niagara sheered off, pouring shoals of metal on a British schooner, stripping her bare. Our little boats had come up, and were boring into the brigs. In a brief time—it was then near three o'clock—a white flag, at the end of a boarding-pike, fluttered over a British deck. D'ri, who had been sitting awhile, was now up and cheering as he waved his crownless hat. He had lent his flag, and, in the flurry, some one dropped it overboard. D'ri saw it fall, and before we could stop him he had leaped into the sea. I hastened to his help, tossing a rope's end as he came up, swimming with one arm, the flag in his teeth. I towed him to the landing-stair and helped him over. Leaning on my shoulder, he shook out the tattered flag, its white laced with his own blood.

"Ready t' jump in hell fer thet ol' rag any day," said he, as we all cheered him.

Each grabbed a tatter of the good flag, pressing hard upon D'ri, and put it to his lips and kissed it proudly. Then we marched up and down, D'ri waving it above us—a bloody squad as ever walked, shouting loudly. D'ri had begun to weaken with loss of blood, so I coaxed him to go below with me.

The battle was over; a Yankee band was playing near by.

"Perry is coming! Perry is coming!" we heard them shouting above.

A feeble cry that had in it pride and joy and inextinguishable devotion passed many a fevered lip in the cockpit.

There were those near who had won a better peace, and they lay as a man that listens to what were now the merest vanity.

Perry came, when the sun was low, with a number of British officers, and received their surrender on his own bloody deck. I remember, as they stood by the ruined bulwarks and looked down upon tokens of wreck and slaughter, a dog began howling dismally in the cockpit.



XVIII

It was a lucky and a stubborn sea-fight. More blood to the number I never saw than fell on the Lawrence, eighty-three of our hundred and two men having been killed or laid up for repair. One has to search a bit for record of a more wicked fire. But we deserve not all the glory some histories have bestowed, for we had a larger fleet and better, if fewer, guns. It was, however, a thing to be proud of, that victory of the young captain. Our men, of whom many were raw recruits,—farmers and woodsmen,—stood to their work with splendid valor, and, for us in the North, it came near being decisive. D'ri and I were so put out of business that no part of the glory was ours, albeit we were praised in orders for valor under fire. But for both I say we had never less pride of ourselves in any affair we had had to do with. Well, as I have said before, we were ever at our best with a sabre, and big guns were out of our line.

We went into hospital awhile, D'ri having caught cold and gone out of his head with fever. We had need of a spell on our backs, for what with all our steeplechasing over yawning graves—that is the way I always think of it—we were somewhat out of breath. No news had reached me of the count or the young ladies, and I took some worry to bed with me, but was up in a week and ready for more trouble, I had to sit with D'ri awhile before he could mount a horse.

September was nearing its last day when we got off a brig at the Harbor. We were no sooner at the dock than some one began to tell us of a new plan for the invasion of Canada. I knew Brown had had no part in it, for he said in my hearing once that it was too big a chunk to bite off.

There were letters from the count and Therese, his daughter. They had news for me, and would I not ride over as soon as I had returned? My mother—dearest and best of mothers—had written me, and her tenderness cut me like a sword for the way I had neglected her. Well, it is ever so with a young man whose heart has found a new queen. I took the missive with wet eyes to our good farmer-general of the North. He read it, and spoke with feeling of his own mother gone to her long rest.

"Bell," said he, "you are worn out. After mess in the morning mount your horses, you and the corporal, and go and visit them. Report here for duty on October 16."

Then, as ever after a kindness, he renewed his quid of tobacco, turning quickly to the littered desk at headquarters.

We mounted our own horses a fine, frosty morning. The white earth glimmered in the first touch of sunlight. All the fairy lanterns of the frost king, hanging in the stubble and the dead grass, glowed a brief time, flickered faintly, and went out. Then the brown sward lay bare, save in the shadows of rock or hill or forest that were still white. A great glory had fallen over the far-reaching woods. Looking down a long valley, we could see towers of evergreen, terraces of red and brown, golden steeple-tops, gilded domes minareted with lavender and purple and draped with scarlet banners. It seemed as if the trees were shriving after all the green riot of summer, and making ready for sackcloth and ashes. Some stood trembling, and as if drenched in their own blood. Now and then a head was bare and bent, and naked arms were lifted high, as if to implore mercy.

"Fine air," said I, breathing deep as we rode on slowly.

"'T is sart'n," said D'ri. "Mother used t' say 'at the frost wus only the breath o' angels, an' when it melted it gin us a leetle o' the air o' heaven."

Of earth or heaven, it quickened us all with a new life. The horses fretted for their heads, and went off at a gallop, needing no cluck or spur. We pulled up at the chateau well before the luncheon hour. D'ri took the horses, and I was shown to the library, where the count came shortly, to give me hearty welcome.

"And what of the captives?" I inquired, our greeting over.

"Alas! it is terrible; they have not returned," said he, "and I am in great trouble, for I have not written to France of their peril. Dieu! I hoped they would be soon released. They are well and now we have good news. Eh bien, we hope to see them soon. But of that Therese shall tell you. And you have had a terrible time on Lake Erie?"

He had read of the battle, but wanted my view of it. I told the story of the Lawrence and Perry; of what D'ri and I had hoped to do, and of what had been done to us. My account of D'ri—his droll comment, his valor, his misfortune—touched and tickled the count. He laughed, he clapped his hands, he shed tears of enthusiasm; then he rang a bell,

"The M'sieur D'ri—bring him here," said he to a servant.

D'ri came soon with a worried look, his trousers caught on his boot-tops, an old felt hat in his hand. Somehow he and his hat were as king and coronal in their mutual fitness; if he lost one, he swapped for another of about the same shade and shape. His brows were lifted, his eyes wide with watchful timidity. The count had opened a leather case and taken out of it a shiny disk of silver. He stepped to D'ri, and fastened it upon his waistcoat.

"'Pour la valeur eprouvee—de l'Empereur,'" said he, reading the inscription as he clapped him on the shoulder. "It was given to a soldier for bravery at Austerlitz by the great Napoleon," said he. "And, God rest him! the soldier he died of his wounds. And to me he have left the medal in trust for some man, the most brave, intrepid, honorable. M'sieur D'ri, I have the pleasure to put it where it belong."

D'ri shifted his weight, looking down at the medal and blushing like a boy.

"Much obleeged," he said presently. "Dunno but mebbe I better put it 'n my wallet. 'Fraid I 'll lose it off o' there."

He threw at me a glance of inquiry.

"No," said I, "do not bury your honors in a wallet."

He bowed stiffly, and, as he looked down at the medal, went away, spurs clattering.

Therese came in presently, her face full of vivacity and color.

"M'sieur le Capitaine," said she, "we are going for a little ride, the marquis and I. Will you come with us? You shall have the best horse in the stable."

"And you my best thanks for the honor," I said.

Our horses came up presently, and we all made off at a quick gallop. The forest avenues were now aglow and filled with hazy sunlight as with a flood, through which yellow leaves were slowly sinking. Our horses went to their fetlocks in a golden drift. The marquis rode on at a rapid pace, but soon Therese pulled rein, I keeping abreast of her.

In a moment our horses were walking quietly.

"You have news for me, ma'm'selle?" I remarked.

"Indeed, I have much news," said she, as always, in French. "I was afraid you were not coming in time, m'sieur."

She took a dainty letter from her bosom, passing it to me.

My old passion flashed up as I took the perfumed sheets. I felt my heart quicken, my face burn with it. I was to have good news at last of those I loved better than my life, those I had not forgotten a moment in all the peril of war.

I saw the handwriting of Louison and then a vision of her—the large eyes, the supple, splendid figure, the queenly bearing. It read;—

"MY DEAR THERESE: At last they promise to return us to you on the 12th of October. You are to send two men for us—not more—to the head of Eagle Island, off Ste. Roche, in the St. Lawrence, with canoes, at ten o'clock in the evening of that day. They will find a lantern hanging on a tree at the place we are to meet them. We may be delayed a little, but they are to wait for us there. And, as you love me, see that one is my brave captain—I do not care about the other who comes. First of all I wish to see my emperor, my love, the tall, handsome, and gallant youngster who has won me. What a finish for this odd romance if he only comes! And then I do wish to see you, the count, and the others. I read your note with such a pleasure! You are sure that he loves me? And that he does not know that I love him? I do not wish him to know, to suspect, until he has asked me to be his queen—until he has a right to know. Once he has my secret. Love is robbed of his best treasure. Mon Dieu! I wish to tell him myself, sometime, if he ever has the courage to take command of me. I warn you, Therese, if I think he knows—when I see him—I shall be cruel to him; I shall make him hate me. So you see I will not be cheated of my wooing, and I know you would not endanger my life's happiness. I have written a little song—for him. Well, some day I shall sing it to him, and will he not be glad to know I could do it? Here are the first lines to give you the idea:—

My emperor! my emperor! Thy face is fair to see; Thy house is old, thy heart is gold, Oh, take command of me!

O emperor! my emperor! Thy sceptre is of God; Through all my days I'll sing thy praise, And tremble at thy nod.

But, dear Therese, you ought to hear the music; I have quite surprised myself. Indeed, love is a grand thing; it has made me nobler and stronger. They really say I am not selfish any more. But I am weary of waiting here, and so eager to get home. You are in love, and you have been through this counting of the hours. We are very comfortable here, and they let us go and come as we like inside the high walls. I have told you there is a big, big grove and garden.

"We saw nothing of 'his Lordship' for weeks until three days ago, when they brought him here wounded. That is the reason we could not send you a letter before now. You know he has to see them all and arrange for their delivery. Well, he sent for Louise that day he came. She went to him badly frightened, poor thing! as, indeed, we all were. He lay in bed helpless, and wept when he saw her. She came back crying, and would not tell what he had said. I do think he loves her very dearly, and somehow we are all beginning to think better of him. Surely no one could be more courteous and gallant. Louise went to help nurse him yesterday, dear, sweet little mother! Then he told her the good news of our coming release, where your men would meet us, and all as I have written. He is up in his chair to-day, the maid tells me. I joked Louise about him this morning, and she began to cry at once, and said her heart was not hers to give. The sly thing! I wonder whom she loves; but she would say no more, and has had a long face all day. She is so stubborn! I have sworn I will never tell her another of my secrets. You are to answer quickly, sending your note by courier to the Indian dockman at Elizabethport, addressed Robin Adair, Box 40, St. Hiliere, Canada. And the love of all to all. Adieu.

"Your loving "LOUISON.

"P.S. Can you tell me, is the captain of noble birth? I have never had any doubt of it, he is so splendid."

It filled me with a great happiness and a bitter pang. I was never in such a conflict of emotion.

"Well," said Therese, "do you see my trouble? Having shown you the first letter, I had also to show you the second. I fear I have done wrong. My soul—"

"Be blessed for the good tidings," I interrupted.

"Thanks. I was going to say it accuses me. Louison is a proud girl; she must never know. She can never know unless—"

"You tell her," said I, quickly. "And of course you will."

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"That every secret that must not be told is the same as published if—if—"

"If what?"

"If—if it tells a pretty story with some love in it," I said, with a quick sense of caution. "Ah, ma'm'selle, do I not know what has made your lips so red?"

"What may it be?"

"The attrition of many secrets—burning secrets," I said, laughing.

"Mordieu! what charming impudence!" said she, her large eyes glowing thoughtfully, with some look of surprise. "You do not know me, m'sieur. I have kept many secrets and know the trick."

"Ah, then I shall ask of you a great favor," said I—"that you keep my secret also, that you do not tell her of my love."

She wheeled her horse with a merry peal of laughter, hiding her face, now red as her glove.

"It is too late," said she, "I have written her."

We rode on, laughing. In spite of the serious character of her words, I fell a-quaking from crown to stirrup. I was now engaged to Louison, or as good as that, and, being a man of honor, I must think no more of her sister.

"I wrote her of your confession," said she, "for I knew it would make her so happy; but, you know, I did not tell of—of the circumstances."

"Well, it will make it all the easier for me," I said. "Ma'm'selle, I assure you—I am not sorry."

"And, my friend, you are lucky: she is so magnificent."

"Her face will be a study when I tell her."

"The splendor of it!" said she.

"And the surprise," I added, laughing.

"Ah, m'sieur, she will play her part well. She is clever. That moment when the true love comes and claims her it is the sweetest in a woman's life."

A thought came flying through my brain with the sting of an arrow.

"She must not be deceived. I have not any noble blood in me. I am only the son of a soldier-farmer, and have my fortune to make," said I, quickly.

"That is only a little folly," she answered, laughing. "Whether you be rich or poor, prince or peasant, she cares not a snap of her finger. Ciel! is she not a republican, has she not money enough?"

"Nevertheless, I beg you to say, in your letter, that I have nothing but my sword and my honor."

As we rode along I noted in my book the place and time we were to meet the captives. The marquis joined us at the Hermitage, where a stable-boy watered our horses. Three servants were still there, the others being now in the count's service.

If any place give me a day's happiness it is dear to me, and the where I find love is forever sacred. I like to stand where I stood thinking of it, and there I see that those dear moments are as much a part of me as of history. So while Therese and the marquis got off their horses for a little parley with the gardener, I cantered up the north trail to where I sat awhile that delightful summer day with Louise. The grotto had now a lattice roofing of bare branches. Leaves, as red as her blush, as golden as my memories, came rattling through it, falling with a faint rustle. The big woods were as a gloomy and deserted mansion, with the lonely cry of the wind above and a ghostly rustle within where had been love and song and laughter and all delight.



XIX

D'ri and I left the chateau that afternoon, putting up in the red tavern at Morristown about dusk.

My companion rode away proudly, the medal dangling at his waistcoat lapel.

"Jerushy Jane!" said he, presently, as he pulled rein. "Ain't a-goin' t' hev thet floppin' there so—meks me feel luk a bird. Don't seem nohow nat'ral. Wha' d' ye s'pose he gin me thet air thing fer?"

He was putting it away carefully in his wallet.

"As a token of respect for your bravery," said I.

His laughter roared in the still woods, making my horse lift and snort a little. It was never an easy job to break any horse to D'ri's laughter.

"It's reedic'lous," said he, thoughtfully, in a moment.

"Why?"

"'Cause fer the reason why they don't no man deserve nuthin' fer doin' what he 'd orter," he answered, with a serious and determined look.

"You did well," said I, "and deserve anything you can get."

"Done my damdest!" said he. "But I did n't do nuthin' but git licked. Got shot an' tore an' slammed all over thet air deck, an' could n't do no harm t' nobody. Jes luk a boss tied 'n the stall, an' a lot o' men whalin' 'im, an' a lot more tryin' t' scare 'im t' death."

"Wha' d' ye s'pose thet air thing's made uv?" he inquired after a little silence.

"Silver," said I.

"Pure silver?"

"Undoubtedly," was my answer.

"Judas Priest!" said he, taking out his wallet again, to look at the trophy. "Thet air mus' be wuth suthin'."

"More than a year's salary," said I.

He looked up at me with a sharp whistle of surprise.

"Ain' no great hand fer sech flummydiddles," said he, as he put the medal away.

"It's a badge of honor," said I. "It shows you 're a brave man."

"Got 'nough on 'em," said D'ri. "This 'ere rip 'n the forehead's 'bout all the badge I need."

"It's from the emperor—the great Napoleon," I said. "It's a mark of his pleasure."

"Wall, by Judas Priest!" said D'ri, "I would n't jump over a stump over a stun wall t' please no emp'ror, an' I would n't cut off my leetle finger fer a hull bushel basket o' them air. I hain't a-fightin' fer no honor."

"What then?" said I.

His face turned very sober. He pursed his lips, and spat across the ditch; then he gave his mouth a wipe, and glanced thoughtfully at the sky.

"Fer liberty," said he, with decision. "Same thing my father died fer."

Not to this day have I forgotten it, the answer of old D'ri, or the look of him as he spoke. I was only a reckless youth fighting for the love of peril and adventure, and with too little thought of the high purposes of my country. The causes of the war were familiar to me; that proclamation of Mr. Madison had been discussed freely in our home, and I had felt some share in the indignation of D'ri and my father. This feeling had not been allayed by the bloody scenes in which I had had a part. Now I began to feel the great passion of the people, and was put to shame for a moment.

"Liberty—that is a grand thing to fight for," said I, after a brief pause.

"Swap my blood any time fer thet air," said D'ri. "I can fight sassy, but not fer no king but God A'mighty. Don't pay t' git all tore up less it's fer suthin' purty middlin' vallyble. My life ain't wuth much, but, ye see, I hain't nuthin' else."

We rode awhile in sober thought, hearing only a sough of the wind above and the rustling hoof-beat of our horses in the rich harvest of the autumn woods. We were walking slowly over a stretch of bare moss when, at a sharp turn, we came suddenly in sight of a huge bear that sat facing us. I drew my pistol as we pulled rein, firing quickly. The bear ran away into the brush as I fired another shot.

"He 's hit," said D'ri, leaping off and bidding me hold the bit. Then, with a long stride, he ran after the fleeing bear. I had been waiting near half an hour when D'ri came back slowly, with a downhearted look.

"'Tain' no use," said he. "Can't never git thet bear. He's got a flesh-wound high up in his hin' quarters, an' he's travellin' fast."

He took a fresh chew of tobacco and mounted his horse.

"Terrible pity!" he exclaimed, shaking his head with some trace of lingering sorrow. "Ray," said he, soberly, after a little silence, "when ye see a bear lookin' your way, ef ye want 'im, alwus shute at the end thet's toward ye."

There was no better bear-hunter in the north woods than D'ri, and to lose a bear was, for him, no light affliction.

"Can't never break a bear's neck by shutin' 'im in the hin' quarters," he remarked.

I made no answer.

"Might jest es well spit 'n 'is face," he added presently; "jest eggzac'ly."

This apt and forceful advice calmed a lingering sense of duty, and he rode on awhile in silence. The woods were glooming in the early dusk when he spoke again. Something revived his contempt of my education. He had been trailing after me, and suddenly I felt his knee.

"Tell ye this, Ray," said he, in a kindly tone. "Ef ye wan' t' git a bear, got t' mux 'im up a leetle for'ard—right up 'n the neighborhood uv 'is fo'c's'le. Don't dew no good t' shute 'is hams. Might es well try t' choke 'im t' death by pinchin' 'is tail."

We were out in the open. Roofs and smoking chimneys were silhouetted on the sky, and, halfway up a hill, we could see the candle-lights of the red tavern. There, in the bar, before blazing logs in a great fireplace, for the evening had come chilly, a table was laid for us, and we sat down with hearty happiness to tankards of old ale and a smoking haunch. I have never drunk or eaten with a better relish. There were half a dozen or so sitting about the bar, and all ears were for news of the army and all hands for our help. If we asked for more potatoes or ale, half of them rose to proclaim it. Between pipes of Virginia tobacco, and old sledge, and songs of love and daring, we had a memorable night. When we went to our room, near twelve o'clock, I told D'ri of our dear friends, who, all day, had been much in my thought.

"Wus the letter writ by her?" he inquired.

"Not a doubt of it."

"Then it's all right," said he. "A likely pair o' gals them air—no mistake."

"But I think they made me miss the bear," I answered.

"Ray," said D'ri, soberly, "when yer shutin' a bear, ef ye want 'im, don't never think o' nuthin' but the bear." Then, after a moment's pause, he added: "Won't never hev no luck killin' a bear ef ye don' quit dwellin' so on them air gals."

I thanked him, with a smile, and asked if he knew Eagle Island.

"Be'n all over it half a dozen times," said he. "'T ain' no more 'n twenty rod from the Yankee shore, thet air island ain't. We c'u'd paddle there in a day from our cove."

And that was the way we planned to go,—by canoe from our landing,—and wait for the hour at Paleyville, a Yankee village opposite the island. We would hire a team there, and convey the party by wagon to Leraysville.

We were off at daybreak, and going over the hills at a lively gallop. Crossing to Caraway Pike, in the Cedar Meadows, an hour later, we stampeded a lot of moose. One of them, a great bull, ran ahead of us, roaring with fright, his antlers rattling upon bush and bough, his black bell hanging to the fern-tops.

"Don' never wan't' hev no argyment with one o' them air chaps 'less ye know purty nigh how 't's comin' out," said D'ri. "Alwus want a gun es well es a purty middlin' ca-a-areful aim on your side. Then ye 're apt t' need a tree, tew, 'fore ye git through with it." After a moment's pause he added: "Got t' be a joemightyful stout tree, er he 'll shake ye out uv it luk a ripe apple."

"They always have the negative side of the question," I said. "Don't believe they 'd ever chase a man if he 'd let 'em alone."

"Yis, siree, they would," was D'ri's answer. "I 've hed 'em come right efter me 'fore ever I c'u'd lift a gun. Ye see, they're jest es cur'us 'bout a man es a man is 'bout them. Ef they can't smell 'im, they 're terrible cur'us. Jes' wan' t' see what 's inside uv 'im an' what kind uv a smellin' critter he is. Dunno es they wan' t' dew 'im any pertic'lar harm. Jes' wan' t' mux 'im over a leetle; but they dew it awful careless, an' he ain't never fit t' be seen no more."

He snickered faintly as he spoke.

"An' they don't nobody see much uv 'im efter thet, nuther," he added, with a smile.

"I 'member once a big bull tried t' find out the kind o' works I hed in me. 'T wa'n' no moose—jest a common ord'nary three-year-ol' bull."

"Hurt you?" I queried.

"No; 't hurt 'im." said he, soberly. "Sp'ilt 'im, es ye might say. Could n't never bear the sight uv a man efter thet. Seem so he did n't think he wus fit t' be seen. Nobody c'u'd ever git 'n a mild o' th' poor cuss. Hed t' be shot."

"What happened?"

"Hed a stout club 'n my hand," said he. "Got holt uv 'is tail, an' begun a-whalin' uv 'im. Run 'im down a steep hill, an' passin' a tree, I tuk one side an' he t' other. We parted there fer the las' time."

He looked off at the sky a moment.

Then came his inevitable addendum, which was: "I hed a dam sight more tail 'an he did, thet 's sartin."

About ten o'clock we came in sight of our old home. Then we hurried our horses, and came up to the door with a rush. A stranger met us there.

"Are you Captain Bell?" said he, as I got off my horse.

I nodded.

"I am one of your father's tenants," he went on. "Ride over the ridge yonder about half a mile, and you will see his house." I looked at D'ri and he at me. He had grown pale suddenly, and I felt my own surprise turning into alarm.

"Are they well?" I queried.

"Very well, and looking for you," said he, smiling.

We were up in our saddles, dashing out of the yard in a jiffy. Beyond the ridge a wide mile of smooth country sloped to the river margin. Just off the road a great house lay long and low in fair acres. Its gables were red-roofed, its walls of graystone half hidden by lofty hedges of cedar. We stopped our horses, looking off to the distant woods on each side of us.

"Can't be," said D'ri, soberly, his eyes squinting in the sunlight.

"Wonder where they live," I remarked.

"All looks mighty cur'us," said he. "'Tain' no way nat'ral."

"Let's go in there and ask," I suggested.

We turned in at the big gate and rode silently over a driveway of smooth gravel to the door. In a moment I heard my father's hearty hello, and then my mother came out in a better gown than ever I had seen her wear. I was out of the saddle and she in my arms before a word was spoken. My father, hardy old Yankee, scolded the stamping horse, while I knew well he was only upbraiding his own weakness.

"Come, Ray; come, Darius," said my mother, as she wiped her eyes; "I will show you the new house."

A man took the horses, and we all followed her into the splendid hall, while I was filled with wonder and a mighty longing for the old home.



XX

It was a fine house—that in which I spent many happy years back in my young manhood. Not, indeed, so elegant and so large as this where I am now writing, but comfortable. To me, then, it had an atmosphere of romance and some look of grandeur. Well, in those days I had neither a sated eye, nor gout, nor judgment of good wine. It was I who gave it the name of Fairacres that day when, coming out of the war, we felt its peace and comfort for the first time, and, dumfounded with surprise, heard my mother tell the story of it.

"My grandfather," said she, "was the Chevalier Ramon Ducet de Trouville, a brave and gallant man who, for no good reason, disinherited my father. The property went to my uncle, the only other child of the chevalier, and he, as I have told you, wrote many kind letters to me, and sent each year a small gift of money. Well, he died before the war,—it was in March,—and, having no children, left half his fortune to me. You, Ramon, will remember that long before you went away to the war a stranger came to see me one day—a stout man, with white hair and dark eyes. Do you not remember? Well, I did not tell you then, because I was unable to believe, that he came to bring the good news. But he came again after you left us, and brought me money—a draft on account. For us it was a very large sum, indeed. You know we have always been so poor, and we knew that when the war was over there would be more and a-plenty coming. So, what were we to do? 'We will build a home,' said I; 'we will enjoy life as much as possible. We will surprise Ramon. When he returns from the war he shall see it, and be very happy.' The architect came with the builders, and, voila! the house is ready, and you are here, and after so long it is better than a fortune to see you. I thought you would never come."

She covered her face a moment, while my father rose abruptly and left the room. I kissed the dear hands that long since had given to heavy toil their beauty and shapeliness.

But enough of this, for, after all, it is neither here nor there. Quick and unexpected fortune came to many a pioneer, as it came to my mother, by inheritance, as one may see if he look only at the records of one court of claims—that of the British.

"Before long you may wish to marry," said my mother, as she looked up at me proudly, "and you will not be ashamed to bring your wife here."

I vowed, then and there, I should make my own fortune,—I had Yankee enough in me for that,—but, as will be seen, the wealth of heart and purse my mother had, helped in the shaping of my destiny. In spite of my feeling, I know it began quickly to hasten the life-currents that bore me on. And I say, in tender remembrance of those very dear to me, I had never a more delightful time than when I sat by the new fireside with all my clan,—its number as yet undiminished,—or went roistering in wood or field with the younger children.

The day came when D'ri and I were to meet the ladies. We started early that morning of the 12th. Long before daylight we were moving rapidly down-river in our canoes.

I remember seeing a light flash up and die away in the moonlit mist of the river soon after starting.

"The boogy light!" D'ri whispered. "There 't goes ag'in!"

I had heard the river folk tell often of this weird thing—one of the odd phenomena of the St. Lawrence.

"Comes alwus where folks hev been drownded," said D'ri. "Thet air's what I've hearn tell."

It was, indeed, the accepted theory of the fishermen, albeit many saw in the boogy light a warning to mark the place of forgotten murder, and bore away.

The sun came up in a clear sky, and soon, far and wide, its light was tossing in the rippletops. We could see them glowing miles away. We were both armed with sabre and pistols, for that river was the very highway of adventure in those days of the war.

"Don' jes' like this kind uv a hoss," said D'ri. "Got t' keep whalin' 'im all the while, an' he 's apt t' slobber 'n rough goin'."

He looked thoughtfully at the sun a breath, and then trimmed his remark with these words; "Ain't eggzac'Iy sure-footed, nuther."

"Don't require much feed, though," I suggested.

"No; ye hev t' dew all the eatin', but ye can alwus eat 'nough fer both."

It was a fine day, and a ride to remember. We had a warm sun, a clear sky, and now and then we could feel the soft feet of the south wind romping over us in the river way. Here and there a swallow came coasting to the ripples, sprinkling the holy water of delight upon us, or a crow's shadow ploughed silently across our bows. It thrilled me to go cantering beside the noisy Rapides du Plats or the wild-footed Galloup, two troops of water hurrying to the mighty battles of the sea. We mounted reeling knolls, and coasted over whirling dips, and rushed to boiling levels, and jumped foamy ridges, and went galloping in the rush and tumble of long slopes.

"Let 'er rip!" I could hear D'ri shouting, once in a while, as he flashed up ahead of me. "Let 'er rip! Consarn 'er pictur'!"

He gave a great yell of triumph as we slowed in a long stretch of still, broad water. "Judas Priest!" said he, as I came alongside, "thet air's rougher 'n the bog trail."

We came to Paleyville with time only for a bite of luncheon before dark. We could see no sign of life on the island or the "Canuck shore" as we turned our bows to the south channel. That evening the innkeeper sat with us under a creeking sign, our chairs tilted to the tavernside.

D'ri was making a moose-horn of birch-bark as he smoked thoughtfully. When he had finished, he raised it to his lips and moved the flaring end in a wide circle as he blew a blast that rang miles away in the far forest.

"Ef we heppen t' git separated in any way, shape, er manner 'cept one," said he, as he slung it over his shoulder with a string, "ye'll know purty nigh where I be when ye hear thet air thing."

"You said, 'in any way, shape, er manner 'cept one.'" I quoted. "What do you mean by that?"

My friend expectorated, looking off into the night soberly a moment.

"Guess I didn't mean nuthin'," said he, presently. "When I set out t' say suthin', don't never know where I 'm goin' t' land. Good deal luk settin' sail without a compass. Thet 's one reason I don't never say much 'fore women."

Our good host hurried the lagging hours with many a tale of the river and that island we were soon to visit, once the refuge of Tadusac, the old river pirate, so he told us, with a cave now haunted by some ghost. We started for the shore near ten o'clock, the innkeeper leading us with a lantern, its light flickering in a west wind. The sky was cloudy, the night dark. Our host lent us the lantern, kindly offering to build a bonfire on the beach at eleven, to light us home.

"Careful, boys," said the innkeeper, as we got aboard. "Aim straight fer th' head o' th' island, Can't ye see it—right over yer heads there? 'Member, they 's awful rough water below."

We pushed off, D'ri leading. I could see nothing of the island, but D'ri had better eyes, and kept calling me as he went ahead. After a few strokes of the paddle I could see on the dark sky the darker mass of tree-tops.

"Better light up," I suggested. We were now close in.

"Hush!" he hissed. Then, as I came up to him, he went on, whispering: "'T ain't bes' t' mek no noise here. Don' know none tew much 'bout this here business. Don' cal'late we 're goin' t' hev any trouble, but if we dew—Hark!"

We had both heard a stir in the bushes, and stuck our paddles in the sand, listening. After a little silence I heard D'ri get up and step stealthily into the water and buckle on his sword. Then I could hear him sinking the canoe and shoving her anchor deep into the sand. He did it with no noise that, fifty feet away, could have been distinguished from that of the ever-murmuring waters. In a moment he came and held my canoe, while I also took up my trusty blade, stepping out of the canoe into the shallow water. Then he shoved her off a little, and sank her beside the other. I knew not his purpose, and made no question of it, following him as he strode the shore with measured paces, the lantern upon his arm. Then presently he stuck his paddle into the bushes, and mine beside it. We were near the head of the island, walking on a reedy strip of soft earth at the river margin. After a few paces we halted to listen, but heard only the voice of the water and the murmur of pines. Then we pushed through a thicket of small fir trees to where we groped along in utter darkness among the big tree trunks on a muffle-footing. After a moment or so we got a spray of light. We halted, peering at the glow that now sprinkled out through many a pinhole aperture in a fairy lattice of pine needles.

My heart was beating loudly, for there was the promised lantern. Was I not soon to see the brighter light of those dear faces? It was all the kind of thing I enjoyed then,—the atmosphere of peril and romance,—wild youth that I was. It is a pity, God knows, I had so little consideration for old D'ri; but he loved me, and—well, he himself had some pleasure in excitement.

We halted for only a moment, pushing boldly through a thicket of young pines into the light. A lantern hung on the bough of a tall tree, and beneath it was a wide opening well carpeted with moss and needles. We peered off into the gloom, but saw nothing.

D'ri blew out a thoughtful breath, looking up into the air coolly, as he filled his pipe.

"Consarned if ever I wanted t' have a smoke s' bad 'n all my born days," he remarked.

Then he moved his holster, turned his scabbard, and sat down quietly, puffing his pipe with some look of weariness and reflection. We were sitting there less than five minutes when we heard a footfall near by; then suddenly two men strode up to us in the dim light. I recognized at once the easy step, the long, lithe figure, of his Lordship in the dress of a citizen, saving sword and pistols.

"Ah, good evening, gentlemen," said he, quietly. "How are you?"

"Better than—than when we saw you last," I answered.

D'ri had not moved; he looked up at me with a sympathetic smile.

"I presume," said his Lordship, in that familiar, lazy tone, as he lighted a cigar, "there was—ah—good room for improvement, was there not?"

"Abundant," said I, thoughtfully. "You were not in the best of health yourself that evening."

"True," said he; "I—I was in bad fettle and worse luck."

"How are the ladies?"

"Quite well," said he, blowing a long puff.

"Ready to deliver them?" I inquired.

"Presently," said he. "There are—some formalities."

"Which are—?" I added quickly.

"A trifle of expenses and a condition," said he, lazily.

"How much, and what?" I inquired, as D'ri turned his ear.

"One thousand pounds," said his Lordship, quickly. "Not a penny more than this matter has cost me and his Majesty."

"What else?" said I.

"This man," he answered calmly, with a little gesture aimed at D'ri.

My friend rose, struck his palm with the pipe-bowl, and put up his knife.

"Ef ye're goin' t' tek me," said he, "better begin right off, er ye won't hev time 'fore breakfust."