His words were interrupted by a sharp rat-tat from the direction of the inner door.

"What the deuce is he knocking at his own door for?" cried the clerk.

Again and much louder came the rat-tat-tat. We all gazed expectantly at the closed door. Glancing at Holmes I saw his face turn rigid, and he leaned forward in intense excitement. Then suddenly came a low gurgling, gargling sound and a brisk drumming upon woodwork. Holmes sprang frantically across the room and pushed at the door. It was fastened on the inner side. Following his example, we threw ourselves upon it with all our weight. One hinge snapped, then the other, and down came the door with a crash. Rushing over it we found ourselves in the inner room.



It was empty.

But it was only for a moment that we were at fault. At one corner, the corner nearest the room which we had left, there was a second door. Holmes sprang to it and pulled it open. A coat and waistcoat were lying on the floor, and from a hook behind the door, with his own braces round his neck, was hanging the managing director of the Franco-Midland Hardware Company. His knees were drawn up, his head hung at a dreadful angle to his body, and the clatter of his heels against the door made the noise which had broken in upon our conversation. In an instant I had caught him round the waist and held him up, while Holmes and Pycroft untied the elastic bands which had disappeared between the livid creases of skin. Then we carried him into the other room, where he lay with a clay-coloured face, puffing his purple lips in and out with every breath—a dreadful wreck of all that he had been but five minutes before.

"What do you think of him, Watson?" asked Holmes.

I stooped over him and examined him.

His pulse was feeble and intermittent, but his breathing grew longer, and there was a little shivering of his eyelids which showed a thin white slit of ball beneath.

"It has been touch and go with him," said I, "but he'll live now. Just open that window and hand me the water carafe." I undid his collar, poured the cold water over his face, and raised and sank his arms until he drew a long natural breath.

"It's only a question of time now," said I, as I turned away from him.

Holmes stood by the table with his hands deep in his trousers pockets and his chin upon his breast.

"I suppose we ought to call the police in now," said he; "and yet I confess that I like to give them a complete case when they come."

"It's a blessed mystery to me," cried Pycroft, scratching his head. "Whatever they wanted to bring me all the way up here for, and then——"

"Pooh! All that is clear enough," said Holmes, impatiently. "It is this last sudden move."

"You understand the rest, then?"

"I think that it is fairly obvious. What do you say, Watson?"

I shrugged my shoulders.

"I must confess that I am out of my depths," said I.

"Oh, surely, if you consider the events at first they can only point to one conclusion."

"What do you make of them?"

"Well, the whole thing hinges upon two points. The first is the making of Pycroft write a declaration by which he entered the service of this preposterous company. Do you not see how very suggestive that is?"

"I am afraid I miss the point."

"Well, why did they want him to do it? Not as a business matter, for these arrangements are usually verbal, and there was no earthly business reason why this should be an exception. Don't you see, my young friend, that they were very anxious to obtain a specimen of your handwriting, and had no other way of doing it?"

"And why?"

"Quite so. Why? When we answer that, we have made some progress with our little problem. Why? There can be only one adequate reason. Someone wanted to learn to imitate your writing, and had to procure a specimen of it first. And now if we pass on to the second point, we find that each throws light upon the other. That point is the request made by Pinner that you should not resign your place, but should leave the manager of this important business in the full expectation that a Mr. Hall Pycroft, whom he had never seen, was about to enter the office upon the Monday morning."

"My God!" cried our client, "what a blind beetle I have been!"

"Now you see the point about the handwriting. Suppose that someone turned up in your place who wrote a completely different hand from that in which you had applied for the vacancy, of course the game would have been up. But in the interval the rogue learnt to imitate you, and his position was therefore secure, as I presume that nobody in the office had ever set eyes upon you?"

"Not a soul," groaned Hall Pycroft.

"Very good. Of course, it was of the utmost importance to prevent you from thinking better of it, and also to keep you from coming into contact with anyone who might tell you that your double was at work in Mawson's office. Therefore they gave you a handsome advance on your salary, and ran you off to the Midlands, where they gave you enough work to do to prevent your going to London, where you might have burst their little game up. That is all plain enough."

"But why should this man pretend to be his own brother?"

"Well, that is pretty clear also. There are evidently only two of them in it. The other is personating you at the office. This one acted as your engager, and then found that he could not find you an employer without admitting a third person into his plot. That he was most unwilling to do. He changed his appearance as far as he could, and trusted that the likeness, which you could not fail to observe, would be put down to a family resemblance. But for the happy chance of the gold stuffing your suspicions would probably have never been aroused."

Hall Pycroft shook his clenched hands in the air. "Good Lord!" he cried. "While I have been fooled in this way, what has this other Hall Pycroft been doing at Mawson's? What should we do, Mr. Holmes? Tell me what to do!"

"We must wire to Mawson's."

"They shut at twelve on Saturdays."

"Never mind; there may be some doorkeeper or attendant——"

"Ah, yes; they keep a permanent guard there on account of the value of the securities that they hold. I remember hearing it talked of in the City."



"Very good, we shall wire to him, and see if all is well, and if a clerk of your name is working there. That is clear enough, but what is not so clear is why at sight of us one of the rogues should instantly walk out of the room and hang himself."

"The paper!" croaked a voice behind us. The man was sitting up, blanched and ghastly, with returning reason in his eyes, and hands which rubbed nervously at the broad red band which still encircled his throat.

"The paper! Of course!" yelled Holmes, in a paroxysm of excitement. "Idiot that I was! I thought so much of our visit that the paper never entered my head for an instant. To be sure the secret must lie there." He flattened it out upon the table, and a cry of triumph burst from his lips.

"Look at this, Watson!" he cried. "It is a London paper, an early edition of the Evening Standard. Here is what we want. Look at the headlines—'Crime in the City. Murder at Mawson and Williams'. Gigantic Attempted Robbery; Capture of the Criminal.' Here, Watson, we are all equally anxious to hear it, so kindly read it aloud to us."

It appeared from its position in the paper to have been the one event of importance in town, and the account of it ran in this way:—

"A desperate attempt at robbery, culminating in the death of one man and the capture of the criminal, occurred this afternoon in the City. For some time back Mawson and Williams, the famous financial house, have been the guardians of securities which amount in the aggregate to a sum of considerably over a million sterling. So conscious was the manager of the responsibility which devolved upon him in consequence of the great interests at stake, that safes of the very latest construction have been employed, and an armed watchman has been left day and night in the building. It appears that last week a new clerk, named Hall Pycroft, was engaged by the firm. This person appears to have been none other than Beddington, the famous forger and cracksman, who, with his brother, has only recently emerged from a five years' spell of penal servitude. By some means, which are not yet clear, he succeeded in winning, under a false name, this official position in the office, which he utilized in order to obtain mouldings of various locks, and a thorough knowledge of the position of the strong room and the safes.

"It is customary at Mawson's for the clerks to leave at midday on Saturday. Sergeant Tuson, of the City Police, was somewhat surprised therefore to see a gentleman with a carpet bag come down the steps at twenty minutes past one. His suspicions being aroused, the sergeant followed the man, and with the aid of Constable Pollock succeeded, after a most desperate resistance, in arresting him. It was at once clear that a daring and gigantic robbery had been committed. Nearly a hundred thousand pounds worth of American railway bonds, with a large amount of scrip in other mines and companies, were discovered in the bag. On examining the premises the body of the unfortunate watchman was found doubled up and thrust into the largest of the safes, where it would not have been discovered until Monday morning had it not been for the prompt action of Sergeant Tuson. The man's skull had been shattered by a blow from a poker, delivered from behind. There could be no doubt that Beddington had obtained entrance by pretending that he had left something behind him, and having murdered the watchman, rapidly rifled the large safe, and then made off with his booty. His brother, who usually works with him, has not appeared in this job, so far as can at present be ascertained, although the police are making energetic inquiries as to his whereabouts."



"Well, we may save the police some little trouble in that direction," said Holmes, glancing at the haggard figure huddled up by the window. "Human nature is a strange mixture, Watson. You see that even a villain and a murderer can inspire such affection that his brother turns to suicide when he learns that his neck is forfeited. However, we have no choice as to our action. The doctor and I will remain on guard, Mr. Pycroft, if you will have the kindness to step out for the police."



Beauties.



Hands.

BY BECKLES WILLSON.

II.



The sculptor's practice of casting in plaster the hands of his client is of comparatively recent growth. The artist of the old school—and he is followed in this by many of the new—disdained so mechanical a means to fidelity. Very few, indeed, among the British painters and sculptors of the past will be found who took the pains to see that the hands or even the figures of their counterfeit presentments on canvas or in marble tallied with the originals. Sir Joshua Reynolds, as we know, would have regarded this as the essence of finical vulgarity.

The principal drawback in making casts from life is to be found in the discomfort, not to speak of the actual torment, it often causes the sitter by the adhesion of the plaster to the hairy growth of the skin. Various methods are resorted to with a view to obviate this, and in some cases successfully.

The hands of Thomas Carlyle—stubborn, combative, mystical—which appear in the present paper, will amply repay the closest scrutiny. These hands are unwontedly realistic, and emphasize their distinctiveness in every vein and wrinkle. They appear to be themselves endowed with each of those various qualities which caused their possessor to be regarded as one of the most puissant figures in the century's literature. The hand is not one, to use Charles Lamb's expressive phrase, to be looked at standing on one leg. It deserves a keener examination.



Mention has been made of the hand of a distinguished prelate, Cardinal Manning. It will not be out of place to compare it with the hands of the late Archbishop of Canterbury, which were cast posthumously. Scarcely anything could be more antagonistic. The nervous personality of Manning is wanting here. The hands of the Archbishop seem more to belong to the order of the benevolent Bishop Myriel than to that of the enthusiast and ascetic.



Plenty of opportunity to study the hands of statesmen is afforded in those of Lord Palmerston, Count Cavour, Sir Stratford Canning, and Lord Melbourne. The fallacy of attaching special qualities to any distinctive trait in the hand of an eminent person is most readily discernible here. One should avoid a posteriori reasoning. It would be the same for a physiognomist to argue a man a statesman from a facial resemblance to Mr. Gladstone, or that he is fit to write tragedies because he owns the exact facial proportions of Sardou.



Among these the hand of Lord Palmerston will stand forth most prominently to the reader. Its characteristics are, on the whole, sufficiently obvious, in the appended cast, to be thought accentuated. It might not unprofitably be noted in connection with those of Stratford Canning, Viscount de Redcliffe (for fifty years British Ambassador in India), whose statue by Boehm, with Tennyson's famous epitaph:

Thou third great Canning, stand among our best And noblest, now thy long day's work hath ceased, Here, silent in our Minster of the West, Who wert the voice of England in the East!

is in a nave of the Abbey. With these should be joined the hand of Viscount Melbourne, the predecessor of Sir Robert Peel in the Premiership, and the great statesman after whom the city of Melbourne was named, in order to range this British galaxy against the hands of the Italian patriots, Count Cavour and Joseph Garibaldi, whose labours resulted in that master stroke of latter-day politics, the unification of Italy. Those of the former were cast separately in different positions, it being the intention of the sculptor for the right hand to rest lightly upon a column and the left to grasp a roll of parchment. Garibaldi's hand may be described as both virile and nervous.



Another type of hand is exemplified in the hands of Messrs. Joseph Arch and John Burns. Both of these belong to self-made men, accustomed to hard manual labour from childhood. Their powerful ruggedness is admirably set off by the exquisite symmetry and feminine proportions of the hand of John Jackson a Royal Academician and great painter of his time. For symmetry, combined with grace, this hand is not surpassed.

The hand of Sir Edgar Boehm was cast by his assistant, Professor Lanteri, for the former's statue of Sir Francis Drake. It will be observed that the fingers grasp a pair of compasses, the original of those which appear in the bronze at Plymouth.



Reverting to the ladies again, interest will, no doubt, centre upon the hand of the celebrated Lady Blessington, accounted the wittiest hostess of her day; and not least attractive will appear Mrs. Carlyle's and those of Mrs. Thornycroft and the celebrated Madame Tussaud. The wife of the Chelsea sage was herself, as is known, an authoress of no mean repute.

A comparison of the hand of Mr. Bancroft with that of Mr. Irving, given last month, will prove interesting, if not instructive.



It has been said that the hands of Carlyle are characteristic; that they possess, with those of Wilkie Collins, the merit of being precisely the sort of hands one would expect to see so labelled. We now present a third candidate for this merit of candour in casts of the hands of the notorious Arthur Orton, better known under the sobriquet of the Claimant. They are pulseless, chubby, oblique: yet they are remarkable. In scrutinizing them, it is difficult not to feel that one looks upon hands very remote indeed from the ordinary.



Next we look upon the hand of a giant even superior to Anak, in Loushkin, the Russian. But physically great as was the Muscovite, it is to be doubted if he really attained the world-wide celebrity of the little American, Charles Stratton (otherwise known as "Tom Thumb"), whose extremity serves as a foil to his rival for exhibition honours.

Another Boehm relic requires some explanation. Every visitor to the Metropolis has doubtless seen and admired the heroic equestrian statue of the Duke of Wellington, opposite Apsley House. They may even have noticed the right hand, which is represented as lightly holding the rein of the animal. The appended was cast from the original model in clay of the hand of the Duke, no cast direct from life ever having been executed.



It is sufficient to say that the subjoined hand and arm of Lady Cardigan, wife of the noted Crimean warrior, was one greatly admired by Sir Edgar, in whose studio it hung for many years. In like manner will the hand of Lady Richard Grosvenor be found the possessor of many beautiful and interesting traits.



A member not altogether dissimilar to that of the musician Liszt is the hand of Carl von Angeli, Court painter to Her Majesty, and like that also in setting at naught the conclusions too often arrived at by the chirognomist. For there is here breadth without symmetry, and an utter absence of the poise which we look for in the ideal hand of the artist. It is instructive to compare it to the hand of the painter, John Jackson.



Observe the massive, masculine fingers and disproportionately small finger-nails in the hands of Professor Weekes, the sculptor. There is scarcely any perceptible tapering at the third joint, and the fingers all exhibit very little prominence of knuckle or contour. It is anything but an artistic hand, and yet its owner was a man of the keenest artistic perceptions.

In Frederick Baring's (Lord Ashburton) we find the thick-set fingers, and what the chirognomist calls the "lack of manual repose," of the great financier. But as his lordship was statesman with a talent for debate as well as man of commerce, it will not unlikely be found that the hand presented combines the both temperaments.



I have been enabled, through the kindness of Mr. J. T. Tussaud, to embellish the present collection by an ancient cast of the hand of the Comte de Lorge, a famous prisoner in the Bastille. This cast was taken, together with a death mask, after death, by the great-grandmother of the sculptor, to whom both relics have descended.

The Queen's hands, which appeared in the last issue of this Magazine, were cast by John Francis, a famous sculptor of the day. Mr. Hamo Thorneycroft, R.A., writes me to say that "While the moulds were being made Her Majesty removed all the rings from her fingers except the wedding ring. This she was most anxious should not come off, and was in considerable fear lest the moulding process might remove it."



[The original drawings of the illustrations in this Magazine are always on view, and on sale, in the Art Gallery at these offices, which is open to the public without charge.]



FROM THE FRENCH OF PITRE CHEVALIER.

I.

It was harvest day at a house in the little village of Panola, in Castile, on the 25th of August, 1838. The great sheaves of corn had been borne, amidst universal rejoicing, to their resting-place in the granary. All the village inhabitants had shared in this pleasant task, and now, following an ancient custom, they had erected a trophy composed of a few last sheaves of corn, round which the young girls and men began to dance gaily, to the sound of guitars and castanets.

Within the house, in a room which overlooked this charming scene, were two men.

The first, seated at a table, was an old man over sixty, but enfeebled rather by cares than by age. His venerable head, crowned with white hair, drooped upon his breast with patriarchal dignity. The old man, who had been a soldier in the Spanish army, was Don Pedro de la Sarga, a Castilian as noble as he was poor. His companion was his son, Don Stephano, a young man of twenty, considered the most accomplished man in Panola. He was handsome; his warm, brown skin, his large, black eyes, the regular features, which wore that expression of national pride which distinguishes a Castilian from any other race, and his raven-black hair were eminently the Spanish type in all its grace and haughtiness. The young man wore the Spanish holiday costume, the richness of which has made travellers exclaim, more than once, that no European prince is clothed like a simple peasant of Castile. Stephano had on a short vest of black cloth, lined with yellow silk, ornamented with fringes and bunches of ribbons; an embroidered shirt with open collar revealing a waistcoat with gilt buttons, knee-breeches of black silk confined at the knees by bunches of ribbons, shoes and gaiters of fine brown leather, while a black felt hat with drooping plume completed his costume.

Stephano's gloomy face contrasted with his gay attire. He leant against the open window, carelessly holding in his hand a bouquet of faded jasmine, whilst he gazed with melancholy eyes upon the festive scene before him, and only by a shake of the head and a sad smile replied to the light badinage of the dancers as they passed the window. But now and then his eyes lighted up, and he sighed deeply as a certain dancer, prettier than the rest, approached him.

"How pretty she is!" he murmured, as he followed her retreating form.

"Stephano!" called out the old man, who had been watching his son for some time.

"How gracefully she dances," continued the handsome dreamer, wrapt in his thoughts.

"Stephano!" repeated the old man.

"Yes, father," cried Stephano, with a start, and coming forward. "Do you wish to speak to me?"

"From your mysterious air and endless sighs these last few days, Stephano, I conclude that you are in love," said his father.

"In love!" stammered the young man. "You think I am in love?"

"I do not think, my son—I am sure of it; and I have only one reproach to make to you, and that is that you have not made me a confidant of your secret before."

"You shall know all, father," said Stephano, drawing a chair close to Don Pedro.

"For the last month," he continued, "I have had in my heart a love which nothing can subdue, and the object of my passion is a young girl here, a glance from whose eyes is worth more to me than all the world besides; but she shuns my love, and on every occasion strives to avoid me. She hardly permits me to speak to her for fear that the passion she reads in my eyes will break into words."

"Bah!" said the old man, merrily; "it is very likely that she shuns you for the reason of your not opening your mouth; you scare the young girl with your morose airs."

"Oh, if that were only true," sighed the disconsolate swain.

"Now," said the old man, "there only remains for me to know the name of my future daughter-in-law."

The young man was about to pronounce the name which already trembled on his lips when a sudden clamour interrupted the most interesting portion of this conversation. The peasants, followed by the partners, were rushing towards the house, and in the twinkling of an eye the room was filled with the animated and noisy throng. The new-comers wore rich costumes, more or less copies of Stephano's; some carried guitars, others castanets, while most of them leaned upon tall peeled rods, forked at the top, and ornamented with ribbons of all colours; each carried on the left side of his vest a bouquet similar to that of Stephano. The young girls in their silken bodices, short skirts, red stockings and mantillas, rattled their castanets as they entered with their partners. The joyous crowd surrounded Don Pedro, whilst cries of "Rosita! Rosita!" resounded from all sides.

"Well, well, my children, what is it you want?" demanded the village Nestor of his clamorous audience.

"We want Mlle. Rosita," they repeated.

"What, my niece? But is she not with you? I thought it was she whom you were leading just now round the corn sheaves."

"That is true," replied one of the foremost of the crowd; "everything went smoothly until we wished her to take part in our usual ceremony of 'The Maiden's Choice.'"

"Did you explain to her," asked the old man, "what is the ceremony?"

"Yes, we told her all that was necessary: that it is an old custom in Panola on harvest day, after having escorted the daughter of the house round the last sheaves of corn, for all her admirers in the village to present her, each in his turn, with a bouquet; that she must then choose the one she loves amongst them by retaining his bouquet, whilst the others are rejected. She answered us by saying that she had only been in Panola a few months, and was therefore not forced to adopt our customs, and leaving us with these words she fled from us and escaped through the little granary door."

"The little shrew!" Don Pedro exclaimed, who, like an amiable old man, was always on the side of the young folk. "But my friends," he added, "you are but poor Lotharios to be flouted by a young girl; you must follow her and bring her back."

"That is just what we have done; but one cannot catch a bird without also having wings. She seemed to fly as we followed her, and on reaching the granary she entered and slammed the door in our faces; so we have come, as a last resource, to you, Don Pedro, to ask her to comply with our wishes."

"You are right," replied the old man, with all the gravity of a judge, "you must be satisfied at once"; and he looked round for Don Stephano, who was standing more moody than ever behind a giggling group of young peasants.

"My son," he said, "go and bring your cousin here. If she refuses, tell her that I particularly wish her to come."

"I will go, father," said Stephano, after a second's hesitation; and he went out.

There was a slight pause; then shouts and acclamations and rattling of castanets burst forth, as Rosita, with downcast eyes, entered the room, led by Stephano. Well might they welcome with fervour such a charming creature. Rosita was just eighteen. She wore upon her golden brown hair a black lace mantilla, which contrasted with her creamy complexion and the liquid depth of her large brown eyes. A brown velvet bodice showed off to perfection her slight yet rounded figure; and her silk skirts just revealed her pretty ankles and small feet in their silk stockings and neat shoes.

Rosita was a native of Navarre. She had quitted Tafalla, her native village, on the death of her father and mother, who had been victims of the Civil War which at this time desolated the country, and had been conducted not without peril to her uncle's house at Panola, in which she had since taken up her abode.

"Rosita," said Don Pedro to his niece, taking her hand, "I have made your apologies to your friends for the trick you have played them. It is your turn now to atone for your misdeed, by submitting to an old custom. Among the brave Castilians who surround you there are many suitors for your hand. There must be one among them whom you secretly favour. Your choice is entirely free, and even the favoured one after the ceremony will then have only the right to please you and to merit your hand."

"But, uncle——" faltered the young girl.

"I will take no denial, my dear," interrupted the old man.

Rosita strove in vain to protest, but her imperturbable uncle would not listen, and gave a sign to the peasants to begin the ceremony, in which he seemed to take as keen an interest as they did themselves. Thereupon the majority of the young men, darting furious glances of jealousy at one another, prepared for the contest. Rosita, at her uncle's side, stood at one end of the room. At her right and left were grouped the young peasant girls, admiring without envy the queen of the fete, and forming her court. Stephano stood behind with dejected mien. Those with guitars touched their instruments lightly now and then, and upon this scene, worthy of the pencil of Leopold Roberts, the sun, now setting at the horizon, cast a calm and solemn light.

The first peasant who came forward was a tall young man, with a ruddy complexion.

"My name is Geronimo Caldaroz, and I am twenty-five. It has been the talk of the village why I did not marry, and it has been said it was because I had never yet seen a maiden beautiful enough to please me. But now I have found her; it is you, Rosita. Will you accept my bouquet?" He presented his bouquet to the young girl, who blushed as she received it, and then let it fall.

"Refused! Refused!" whispered the spectators, whilst the young man disappeared into the crowd, and a second one took his place. But the same thing occurred, and with the same result. Soon the jasmine bouquets covered the ground round the young girl's feet. The rejected suitors multiplied so fast that they could no longer hide their discomfiture amongst the others. Restless and smiling, Don Pedro wondered why his niece was so severe, and the remaining suitors seemed to hesitate whether to advance into the lists or not. Then the last three timidly advanced one by one toward Rosita. The two first were not even heard to the end of their speech, and then all eyes were fixed with interest upon the last. Rosita let him finish his discourse, took his bouquet, which she scrutinized demurely, and then uttering a deep sigh let it fall upon the amorous trophy piled at her feet.

A murmur rose amongst the stupefied villagers. Don Pedro approached his niece.

"Well, my child," he said, "have you thought of what you have done?"

"Yes, uncle," Rosita replied. "Did you not tell me yourself that I was perfectly free?"

"Free to choose, without doubt; but not to send all your suitors away."

Rosita cast down her eyes and made no reply.

"Pardon me, father, but there still remains one," said Stephano, breaking the silence.

"Where is he?" everyone asked at once.

"Here he is."

Rosita trembled so violently that she was compelled to lean for support upon her uncle's arm, and Don Pedro, more astonished than anyone, rushed towards his son.

"What, Stephano?" he said joyfully. "It is your cousin whom——"

"Yes, father," replied the young man. "It is she whom I love."

In the midst of such general interest Stephano, pale with emotion, advanced towards his cousin.

"Rosita, I love you," he said, simply. "Will you keep this bouquet which I offer to you?"

The young man pronounced these words with a voice so sweet and expressive, and the gesture with which he offered the symbolic flower was so imploring and passionate, that a sympathetic thrill ran through the spectators, and tears bedimmed Don Pedro's eyes.



Rosita, not less pale than her cousin, took the bouquet with a trembling hand, gazed upon it tenderly, then made a movement as if to throw it down, paused, and then at last, with head turned aside, let it fall.

"Santa Maria! He also!" cried the crowd, mournfully.

"Do not condemn me without hearing my justification," cried Rosita, turning to Don Pedro.

"Your justification?" repeated Stephano, with relief.

"Uncle," she said, after a pause, "there is a secret which I may have been wrong in concealing from you hitherto, but I must confide it to you alone."

"To me!" cried the astonished old man.

"I will come with you at once," and, seizing Rosita's hand, he led her away, making signs to the peasants as he did so to disperse.

Stephano strolled out to breathe the air upon the hills, whose shadows were beginning to slope down into the valley. The sky was lighted only by the afterglow of the red, sunken sun; the evening breeze carried along in the warm air the perfume of the jasmine flowers and orange groves in bloom, and no sound was heard but the music of guitars and castanets, mingled sometimes with the faint tinkle of sheep bells.

When Stephano re-entered he found his father and cousin in the lower hall. Rosita, on perceiving him, made a pretext for rising, and hurriedly left the room. Don Pedro and his son were left alone.

"One word, father," said Stephano. "Does Rosita love me, and will she also become my wife?"

"You must forget Rosita," replied the old man. "You must tear from your heart even the remembrance of your love."

The young man abandoned himself to despair.

"I shall never forget her," he said, passionately. "My love for Rosita will only cease with my life."

And he rushed from the room, leaving the old man wondering.

II.

For some weeks the inmates of Don Pedro's house were forced to remain prisoners, for rebel soldiers filled the neighbouring villages, and troops of guerillas were being mustered to put them to flight. It was a morning, early in September, just after the sun had peered above the horizon. A fine rain had fallen during the night, and the drops which rested on the foliage sparkled like myriads of diamonds. The streets were as yet deserted; some muleteers alone passed along them at intervals. Don Pedro's house was the only one astir.

Don Stephano, according to his custom, had risen with the dawn, and was now alone in the lower hall, standing opposite the window which overlooked the high road. He was occupied in fixing an iron lance upon a wooden rod, at which he gazed abstractedly.

The sound of a voice filling the air with song attracted his attention; it was singing the Moorish romance of "Adlemar and Adalifa," and to the quick perception of a Spanish ear was marked with a slight Ultramontaine accent, which Stephano discerned like a true Castilian. Without moving he listened to the song which awoke the echoes of the valley. The amorous words recalled to Stephano's mind the thought of Rosita, and he sighed deeply. Then he listened anew to the voice, which grew nearer and nearer, and in which, in spite of its strange accent, he seemed to hear an understrain of singular emotion. His conjectures were not long, however. A man enveloped in a large mantle peered in at the open window, and after throwing a rapid glance behind him leapt into the room. Stephano recoiled at the sight of such a strange visitor, and felt tempted to seize the man, whom he took at first for a robber. Then a troop of horsemen dashed past the house. The stranger gave a sigh of relief. Then for the first time he caught sight of Stephano.

"I must be careful," the soldier muttered, as he drew his cloak more carefully round him. "This Spaniard does not look over benevolent."

"Who can this man be?" thought Stephano, as he instinctively put his hand on his pistols; but on seeing the stranger advance towards him with a pleasant smile, he paused.

"Noble Castilian," said the stranger, "are you a man to oblige an enemy in peril, and who for a quarter of an hour wishes you no more harm than if you were his brother?"

Before replying, Stephano scrutinized his questioner. He saw before him a man of about twenty-eight, with a frank face and light hair and moustache. His accent, and the blue pantaloons which appeared under the brown mantle, proclaimed him a Frenchman.



"No unarmed man is my enemy," replied Stephano, "and from the moment my roof was over your head you became my guest."

"Shake hands on it! You are a fine fellow," cried the soldier, holding out his hand. At the same time he drew aside his mantle, and Stephano recognised the uniform worn by the French volunteers of Don Carlos's army. "Now, if you have a drop of anything to drink handy, I will tell you in a few words what has brought me here."

Stephano opened the sideboard, and brought out a bottle and glasses. The soldier wiped his moustache as he began.

"You see before you," he said, with frank abruptness, "Charles Dulaurier, a soldier by birth and profession, lieutenant in the Grenadiers of His Majesty Charles V.—pardon me, Don Carlos. Being stationed some few miles from here, I asked for leave of absence this morning to join some troops which (pardon me) are going to make a raid upon this very village this morning. But, thanks to my foolhardiness in starting off alone, I soon found myself in the hands of guerillas. I escaped. They pursued me. But I, though alone in a strange country and unarmed, led them a nice dance for half an hour. I was just about to fall again into their hands when I came in sight of this house. I duped them by my ruse of pitching my voice in such a manner as to lead them to think I was beyond the village, whilst I at the same time took refuge here. To conclude, my worthy fellow, no doubt the guerillas are not blind, and not finding any trace of me upon the route, will return to Panola. Consequently, if you are a host to my liking you will——"

"Conceal you," said Stephano, quickly. "You are right!" and he glanced round with uneasiness. The lieutenant struck him on the shoulder. "One minute," he said; "the guerillas cannot reappear for half an hour. This little expedition, as you may imagine, was not my only motive for coming to Panola, and I must again abuse your patience in asking you some questions upon a certain subject which is the motive of my expedition."

"Go on," replied Stephano, with resignation.

"I came here to look for a young girl," said the Frenchman, twisting his moustache, "and as, perhaps, you will be so good as to give me some information on this point, it would be better for you to know the story. Last year my regiment, after a vigorous resistance, entered a village in Navarre."

"A village in Navarre?" repeated Stephano, and his brow darkened.

"One house had been so well defended, indeed, that it was found necessary to surround it, and our infuriated soldiers, drunk with carnage, determined to massacre everyone within. I luckily surprised them as they drew their sabres upon two poor old creatures and their young daughter. I threw myself between the victims and their butchers; the wretches turned upon me and I fell wounded by a bayonet thrust, but they were saved. The kind people who owed me their lives bore me to their house, and gave me every care. The young girl watched at my bedside for more than a fortnight. Briefly the beauty, the tenderness of the little girl, won my heart. Losing no time, I declared my passion. She whispered, blushing, that I might speak to her parents. As soon as I was well enough to walk, I hastened to the worthy old man, who, after the shock he had received, became mortally ill, and felt his end approach. I had no sooner asked him for his daughter's hand than he exclaimed, 'God be praised! I shall not now die without having recompensed our deliverer.' At the same time he took the young girl's hand and mine, and, after making us exchange rings, clasped them together. Then he stretched forth his trembling hands above our heads to bless us, whilst on our knees by the bedside we swore eternal fidelity to each other. Three days after the good man died, and the same day my regiment left for Castile. Seven months passed without my hearing any news from my betrothed, and it was only by chance I learned that on her mother's death she had quitted Navarre to take up her abode in her uncle's house at Panola.

"But what is the matter?" said the lieutenant, as Stephano rose hurriedly.

"I know enough," replied the young man in a hollow voice. "The village was Tafalla, and the young girl's name is Rosita."

"But what is there in that?" cried the lieutenant, who understood nothing of Stephano's emotion. "You know Rosita? She is here? You are silent. Heavens! Is she dead—or married?"

"No, no," replied Stephano, with an effort. "Rosita is here. No doubt she loves you and watches for your return with impatience."

"Where, then, shall I find my betrothed?"

Stephano was about to reply to this question when the tramp of horses was heard. It was the troop returning.

"Softly!" whispered Dulaurier as he crept towards the window. "Yes, these are my friends. Where will you hide me?"

Stephano regarded him with a savage gleam in his eyes and muttered to himself, "This man comes here to blast my happiness, and I must protect his life at the peril of my own."

"What am I to do?" repeated Dulaurier.

"Take this dagger," said Stephano, "put on your mantle and follow me." He unfastened a little door which opened upon a staircase which led into the garden, and descended, followed by Dulaurier. They stole along behind a thick hedge of hawthorn until they came to the trees of a little orchard, from which rose the roof of a ruined summer-house. On reaching this spot Stephano installed the lieutenant so that he could watch both the road and the garden; then having arranged upon the course they should take, Stephano hastened back to the house.



Don Pedro was in the lower hall, alone, when his son entered.

"I have a request to make to you," said the young man, clasping his father's hand convulsively. "I want you to let me start at once to join my brothers and to fight for Spain."

"Can you then leave your cousin?" said Don Pedro, sadly. "And you do not know——"

"I know more than you, father, more than Rosita herself about this affair," interrupted Stephano. "Is not Rosita betrothed to a French volunteer in Don Carlos's army, and is this not the secret she confided to you on harvest day?"

"It is true. But how have you discovered it?"

"From a man flying from the pursuit of guerillas; no other than the man himself, Lieutenant Charles Dulaurier!"

"Is it possible?" exclaimed the stupefied old man.

"You see, father, that it is absolutely necessary for me to go," cried Stephano. "I cannot wait until Rosita and Dulaurier are united. Their happiness would be more than I could bear, and I have thought of a plan by which the lieutenant can be saved without putting off my departure. I shall join the troop of guerillas who are seeking Dulaurier in the village. Seeing me become one of themselves their suspicions will be lulled, and I shall save my rival by departing with his enemies."

"You are right," replied his father, after a painful pause, but he could not utter a word more.

The young man proceeded to take down from the wall his pistols and his gun; he placed the former in his belt and the latter on his shoulder, took his hat and stepped forward to bid his father farewell. But as he threw himself into the arms of the weeping old man, the door opened and Rosita entered.

The young girl glanced quickly from one to the other, and then her eyes remained fixed on Stephano.

"What are you going to do?" she asked, examining his equipment.

"I am going away," replied Stephano. "Farewell, Rosita, be happy. Farewell, father," he added, embracing Don Pedro.

"He is going," said Rosita, her eyes dim with tears, "without one friendly smile, without one clasp of his hand. Oh! Stephano," she exclaimed, springing forward. "You cannot part from me thus!"

"You are keeping me!" said the bewildered young man.

"Yes," she replied, seizing his hand. "Stay, Stephano, do not go. I implore you!"

"Remain!" cried the young man, passionately. "Remain to see you in the arms of another? Never!"

As he moved towards the door, Rosita sprang towards him with outstretched arms. "And what if it is you whom I love, Stephano? What if I have never loved anyone but you?" A thunderbolt would hardly have produced more effect than did these words.

"You love me?" he repeated, approaching his cousin. "Rosita, for mercy's sake, repeat those words once more, so that I may be sure of having heard aright."

"Yes, I love you," repeated the young girl, tenderly; "no one but you! Will you stay now?"

"For ever, if you wish it!" cried the enraptured youth, throwing down his gun and pistols. "Look at me, Rosita, that I may read in your eyes that word which gives me life, and which I have waited for so long. How blind and foolish I have been! But that will be all right now, will it not, my beloved?" As he spoke he embraced her passionately. By both of them the world was forgotten.

Through the open window came the clink of spurs and rattling of sabres. This sound, to which Stephano and Rosita were deaf, struck on the ear of Don Pedro and paralyzed him with terror.

"Stephano!" he cried at last. "Remember Lieutenant Dulaurier!"



"Ah!" groaned Stephano, rudely torn from his ecstasy of happiness; and he fixed his gaze upon his cousin.

The girl had not even heard Don Pedro.

"Rosita," said her lover, "you say you love me, but you have a fiance!"

"Dulaurier!" cried the startled girl. "Great Heaven! pardon me, I had forgotten."

"If this man," continued Stephano, "came here to claim your promise, you would reply, would you not, that friendship alone, not love, had drawn you towards him, and that your hand, promised when you hardly knew what you did, would now be given without your heart?"

"Yes, that is what I should answer; but he is not likely to come here, Stephano."

"And what if he were here already?" asked an impressive voice.

Don Pedro at the same time stepped forward between the young people, and before the severe face of the Spaniard their eyes drooped.

"Father!" faltered the young man.

"Silence!" cried the old man. "Your duty is clear. What if Dulaurier were in the house, Rosita—what if, more faithful than you, he had come to claim his promise, made at the death-bed of your father? I ask you what you would answer."

Trembling and submissive as a criminal before his judge, the young girl turned her eyes from Stephano to Don Pedro.

"I should reply to Lieutenant Dulaurier that, before God and man, I am his betrothed bride, and that while he lives no other can be my husband."

"Come then, my child, prepare to receive your fiance," and Don Pedro held out his hand to his niece to lead her away.

"You are destroying my happiness!" cried Stephano.

"But in return I give you back your honour," replied Don Pedro. "Look after the lieutenant, for here come the guerillas!" and he went out.

"What a dream, and what an awakening!" murmured Stephano as he was left alone. "Rosita vows she loves me, and at the same time declares she will never be mine while Dulaurier lives. While he lives! And I must take upon myself the peril of saving him, when I have only to let him——Oh, how despair tempts us to horrible deeds! Is there time to fly, to quit this spot where each thought is torture: to hasten and join the guerillas before they enter the house? For, alas! if they enter now and demand where their enemy is—by Heaven! I shall not have the strength to resist—I must fly!"

Picking up his gun and pistols he rushed towards the door, but recoiled at the sight of a man in the uniform of a captain of guerillas, who by a gesture forced him to pause.



"Malediction—it is too late!" murmured the young man, as he dropped upon a chair, and let his unheeded weapons fall to the ground.

"Two sentinels before each door and window," called out the captain to the soldiers who followed him. "This is the last house in which our prisoner could take refuge," he continued, striking impatiently the butt end of his rifle upon the ground. "Search well, comrades; you know he who takes the Frenchman prisoner is to have the honour of firing the first shot upon him, and is also to receive twenty douros for reward." Thereupon he advanced into the room. "Well, my good fellow," he said to Stephano; "what are you going to do with these weapons? Are they to defend yourself or to protect the officer whom you have hidden here?"

"No one is hidden in this house," replied the young man, with the courage which peril bestows. "The La Sargas are known throughout the country to be devoted to Spain and the Queen. I have three brothers in the national army, and I have just picked up these weapons with the intention of joining your troops."

The captain looked at him with a sneering smile. Then he turned to his companions, who had just returned from searching the house.

"Well, have you found anything?"

"Only a young girl and an old man," was the reply.

"Bring the old man here," said the captain; then he turned to Stephano. "And you, sir, go with my lieutenant and these three men, and show them every room there is"; then he murmured in the lieutenant's ear, slipping at the same time a purse of gold into his hand: "Spare neither threats nor persuasion to gain this young man over to our side. Whatever it costs, I must recapture our prisoner."

Stephano felt tempted to resist these orders, but he reflected that this would only draw suspicion upon him, and he led the way up the stairs, which were placed in a corner of the room.

At the same time Don Pedro entered, guarded by two soldiers and leaning on his staff. Then an interval ensued, and the minutes flew past. Suddenly a pistol shot was heard. Everyone gave a start of alarm. Then one of the guards who had gone out with Stephano came rushing down the stairs and into the room.

"The bird is snared, or will be in a few minutes," he cried. "Our prisoner," he continued, pointing through the window, "is in that building which you see at the bottom of the garden."

"How do you know this?" asked the captain.

"From the young man who is upstairs with the lieutenant."

"From Stephano!" cried the old man, growing pale with horror.

"Ah, ah!" laughed the captain, "your son does not seem very hard to persuade."

"The lieutenant having discovered nothing," the man went on, "told three of us to go and search the granary, and took advantage of the occasion to take the young man aside. I watched them. A purse of gold and the barrel of a pistol have been the principal inducements. The sly fellow at first was very obstinate, and it was then that the lieutenant fired the pistol at him to frighten him. The young man seemed to be moved in a singular manner by the shot. He gave way with good grace, and pointed the pavilion out to us."

Whilst the captain lent a joyful ear to this narrative, Don Pedro, on the contrary, listened with terror mingled with incredulity. At these last words he could contain himself no longer, and broke in violently:—

"Enough, wretch; enough!" he cried. "What you say is impossible! It is an infamous calumny! My son is quite incapable of such villainy!"

"Look, senor," replied the man, pointing to the stairs.

Stephano in truth was descending with the lieutenant, holding the purse in his hand. His pale and agitated face seemed to proclaim his guilt, and Don Pedro sank back fainting on a seat. Stephano crossed the room with a faltering step without observing his father, and, reaching the window, gazed out upon the road.

In recalling to mind his son's jealousy of Dulaurier, Don Pedro understood the facts of the matter—that he had sold his guest to get rid of a detested rival. Maddened by passion, he had without doubt lost all control over himself. After having exchanged some words in a low voice with his lieutenant, the captain made a sign to two of his men.

"Remain with this fellow," he said, in a tone of contempt, pointing to Stephano, "until we reach the pavilion; if he makes one movement shoot him, and when a volley announces to you that we are not deceived, join us to start upon our route."

"Very good, captain," answered the two soldiers, taking up their position on each side of Stephano, whilst the others went out softly.

A mournful silence reigned in the chamber.

Stephano stood erect before the window, with haggard eyes fixed upon the road; Don Pedro, mute and motionless in his chair, seemed like a man bereft of all at a single blow. Then, his misery overwhelming him, he covered his face with his hands and wept. Stephano turned round quickly, and for the first time saw his father.

"Great Heavens! He was there, and heard all!" he murmured. "Father!" he cried imploringly.

"Call me your father no more," cried the old man, with flaming eyes, "unless you can tell me that I am blind and deaf, or that I have dreamed that my son was a coward, a traitor, an assassin! Tell me so, Stephano, for pity's sake!"

The young man made an effort as if he were about to speak, but paused at the sight of his two guards; the strain was so painful that he was forced to lean for support on one of the guerilla's arms. Then he turned away; Don Pedro rose from his seat and came towards his son.

"His eye never quits this fatal window," he murmured to himself. "It looks as if he watched to see the success of his perfidy, that he wishes to assure himself that his rival does not escape. Wretch!" he burst forth, "if this is so, may you be——"

Suddenly a hand was laid softly upon the old man's arm. It was Rosita.

"Ah! it is you, Rosita!" said Don Pedro with a bewildered stare. "Wretched man that I am, what was I about to do?" he added, passing his hand over his forehead.

Rosita came farther forward into the room.

"Stephano guarded by two soldiers!" she cried. "Holy Virgin! what does this mean, and what has happened?"

And she made an instinctive movement towards her cousin. Her uncle stopped her.

"Keep away from this wretched man!" he cried, "for he is a coward and a traitor; he has betrayed your betrothed!"

"Betrayed my betrothed!" cried the girl, with horror. "It is impossible!"

"Not only has he betrayed him," continued the old man, taking his niece's hand, "but he is watching for the success of his treason. Do you recognise my son, Rosita?" he added, with heartrending despair, "or the man whom you loved?"

Here the poor old man broke down completely, and sank back into his chair. The girl gazed at him with consternation. Even the rough soldiers were touched by the scene, and turned their heads aside.



At that instant a loud report shook the walls. It was the captain's volley. The two soldiers exchanged a meaning glance and disappeared. As soon as they went out Rosita threw herself in Don Pedro's arms.

"Dulaurier is dead!" said the old man, gloomily.

"He is saved!" cried Stephano, coming forward, and throwing from him as he did so the purse of gold. "Yes, father, yes, Rosita, the lieutenant is safe and sound, and will be with us in a few seconds."

"How can that be?" cried Don Pedro, passing from despair to joy.

"Before leaving Dulaurier in the pavilion we had arranged that he was to be informed by a pistol shot when he must leave his hiding-place for the granary whilst his enemies were searching the pavilion. You understand now how the guerilla's shot agitated me. For, of course, Dulaurier, taking the report for the signal agreed upon, would leave the pavilion for the granary, and would then fall into the hands of his pursuers. The only plan to save him was to get the soldiers away from the granary, which I did by feigning to betray Dulaurier, by accepting the purse, and pointing out the pavilion as his hiding-place. For a quarter of an hour I have endured the tortures of hell, but I have saved the man who confided in me, and I am still worthy of you both!"

The young man had hardly finished his narrative when his father and Rosita were at his feet begging for forgiveness. Then Stephano hastened to the granary, and called the lieutenant's name, but there was no response, and soon Stephano's surprise was changed to uneasiness. He rushed into the granary. It was empty. Stephano reappeared, pale, tottering and breathless.

"Dulaurier is not in the granary," he cried. "He cannot have taken the pistol shot for my signal. He must have remained, and that report we heard was his death-shot."

He paused abruptly. Don Pedro and Rosita understood, and burst forth into an exclamation of horror.

"Victory! Victory!" cried a hundred voices.

Their despair and consternation were changed to the most lively astonishment, when a detachment of Don Carlos's volunteers entered the house, led by Dulaurier himself.

"Dulaurier!" exclaimed Stephano, Don Pedro, and Rosita at the same time.

"Our enemies!" said the old Castilian, whilst his niece shrank behind him.

"Say rather friends," replied Dulaurier, pressing Stephano's hand warmly.

"But how has all this happened?" began the bewildered Stephano.

"One minute's attention. For half an hour I waited patiently after your departure in the little pavilion, when I heard the signal we arranged on of the pistol shot. I quitted my hiding-place at once, and was preparing to creep towards the granary, when, casting a glance upon the road, I recognised the uniforms of the volunteers of my regiment. Briefly," continued Dulaurier, showing the soldiers who surrounded him, "here are the gentlemen, whom I have the honour of presenting to you. Like good comrades, they determined to avenge me, and we caught the guerillas in an ambush as they were searching the pavilion. Bang! a general discharge, and thirty men were lying on the ground, and the rest running away for their lives."

"The volley of which we believed you the victim!" interrupted Stephano.

"You understand the rest. Not wishing to quit Panola without thanking you, and also wishing to see about that little matter which I mentioned to you this morning, we came on here. And now," he added to Stephano, with the air of a man who has no time to lose, "I must thank you most warmly for all you have done for me."

There was such a tone of kindness in these words that Stephano could do nothing but grasp his hand cordially in return.

"Anyone else?" cried the effusive officer, looking quickly round. "You have a father, a mother, a wife, perhaps? Where are they? This noble old man must be your father," and upon Stephano's making an affirmative sign he grasped the old man's hand, and wrung it with force.

"Are there no ladies in your family?" asked Dulaurier with a gallant air.

It was then that in spite of Rosita's efforts to avoid his attention he caught sight of her as she hid behind Don Pedro's high-backed chair.

"Ah! here is one!" he said, without recognising his betrothed. He stepped forward towards her.

"Most amiable senora," he began politely, "permit me——" He paused, gazing with stupefied eyes upon the young girl, and then made a sign to his soldiers to leave them.

"Good Heavens!" he exclaimed, "if I am not deceived it is Rosita, my pretty fiancee!"

"You are right; it is I, Monsieur Dulaurier," faltered the young girl.

The light of happiness vanished from all the faces in the room except the lieutenant's.

"You can easily understand, my pretty one, what has led me to Panola," said Dulaurier.

"I presume you have come to remind Rosita," answered Don Pedro, "of the promise that she gave you at her dying father's bedside. She has not forgotten it, senor. She recognises her duty, and you have only one word to say——"

"Will you answer me yourself, Rosita?" interrupted Dulaurier, marking her extreme pallor and agitation. "You know what I have the right of claiming; are you still able to give it me freely?"

"Without doubt," she murmured; "if I give you my hand, my heart will go with it."

"Words, nothing but words!" thought the lieutenant, who grew pale in his turn. "All women are weathercocks. It is clear I am superseded," and he bit his lip until it bled. "But I should like to know who is my substitute," and he turned mechanically to Stephano. He found him as mute and as troubled as Rosita. The truth flashed across him. "I cannot blame the brave young man," he murmured to himself, "for falling in love with his cousin. It has not prevented him from saving my life at the expense of his love and honour, and as I have no wish for a heart not wholly mine, I have now to render sacrifice for sacrifice, and to keep the reputation of France equal to that of Spain." He turned to Rosita with a smile.

"Mademoiselle," he began, "when we plighted our troth, and I told you that I loved you devotedly, I was as sincere as I am to-day, only I took upon myself too much, and have contracted several other engagements, more or less similar to yours." He gave a forced laugh as he pronounced these words.

"That is enough, senor," said Don Pedro. "But why have you then come to Panola to claim her promise?"

"Who said that I was here for that purpose?" asked Dulaurier, abruptly. Stephano, indeed, recollected that the Frenchman had not said a single word which implied that he came to claim Rosita's hand. "I implore Mademoiselle Rosita to pardon me," pursued Dulaurier, "and I propose that we exchange rings again."



It was no sooner said than done. Dulaurier turned and clasped Stephano's hand again, and now the young man saw with apprehension that Dulaurier's eyes were dim with tears. Dulaurier could keep up the farce no longer, and his heart was breaking behind the smile upon his lips.

"Dulaurier!" said the young man, "you weep: you are unhappy! What you have said has been only a sublime falsehood! You love Rosita—you wish to marry her—and if you have the generosity to renounce all for me, it must not be at the expense of your happiness."

"Hush!" said Dulaurier, as he took him aside. "Do not undo my work. But since you have found it out, you are right. I did come back to claim Rosita. I have always loved her, and have loved none but her. But do not breathe a word of this. Let no thought of my unhappiness cast a shadow on her life. Sacrifice for sacrifice, young man. France is equal to Spain, and we are quits.

"Farewell, brave Castilians," he cried aloud, "celebrate the marriage merrily: and let us hope that we shall never meet upon the battlefield of this unhappy country."

"Farewell!" replied Stephano, huskily.

Dulaurier pressed Don Pedro's and Stephano's hands, kissed that of Rosita, and joined his comrades outside.

"Wheel to the right—forward!" he shouted, at the head of his battalion.

Then came the roll of the drum, and they all marched past the window.

"Rosita," said Stephano to his cousin, "you are free, and we are going to be happy; but never let us forget Lieutenant Dulaurier!"



The Queer Side of Things.

The N. P. M. C



Let us return for a space to the two spirits William and James, whose conversations we described in past numbers. Some readers may possibly recall how the spirit James, while wandering through the darkness of unoccupied Space (about five-and-twenty billions of eons before the commencement of Eternity), conceived a wild idea of the possibility of the existence of worlds—worlds occupied by an impracticability called "man." It will be recollected how the wiser spirit William cast well-merited ridicule upon this insanely impossible phantasy of a disordered mind; nay, even condescended to crush, by perspicuous and irrefutable logic, the grotesque and preposterous idea.

Very well; it is now William's turn.

"James," he said one day as they chanced to sight each other in the awful solitude of Space, "I have been thinking over that world of yours, and your crowning absurdity, 'man.' Pray do not become too inflated with weak conceit at my condescending to think about such trivialities; for the fact is, any subject of thought—however hopelessly foolish—is a relief amid the tediousness of Space. Well, I have been reflecting upon that characteristic which you conceive as distinguishing your puppet 'man'—I allude to intelligence. I think you suggested that he would possess intelligence?"

James only fidgeted uneasily, and made a feeble sign of affirmation.

"Very well," continued William. "Now, I have been putting two and two together, and have found out the nature of that quality which you mistake for intelligence; its true name is 'low cunning.' Every fresh piece of absurdity which you have told me touching the tricks of your queer creatures has supplied new evidence of this. Your creatures were to feed upon the substance of the 'world' on which they lived, and, ever increasing in numbers, would logically in course of time find there was not a mouthful apiece. I think we agreed about that? Well, let us consider that period, some time before the creatures should actually become exterminated by the natural evolution of events—the time when all the eatable products of their world would be growing scarce. You went so far as to imagine a great many products——"

"Yes!" said James, gazing afar off in the absorption of his imagination. "Yes—there were eggs, and oysters, and poultry, and mushrooms, and——"

"Ah!—the very things I've been reflecting about. Well, I've been dreaming that, at the period of which I speak, when all the commodities were becoming scarce, your human beings would agree to make poisonous artificial articles of consumption with which to poison themselves by degrees, and thus reduce the population to convenient limits."

"No!" cried James, pondering deeply. "Their idea would be to poison not themselves, but each other!"



"Ah! I see. Then they would make some sort of effort to prevent themselves being poisoned?"

"Oh, yes; they would pass Adulteration Acts for the purpose."

"I see; and any creature who did not wish to be poisoned could take advantage of these Acts to protect himself?"

"Certainly. The Acts would be very stringent. Let us suppose, for example, that a certain man suspected that the butter supplied to him was not butter at all, but a deleterious compound—well, all he would have to do would be to go to the shop, accompanied by a guardian of the peace, and, standing on one leg, with both hands on the counter and one eye shut, order a pound of the butter in certain words prescribed by the Act. He would then say to the tradesman, 'I am about to divide this pound of butter into three equal portions for the purposes of analysis'; and, taking the butter-man's knife in his left hand, and passing it to his right, would cut the butter into three portions exactly equal.

"After this, hermetically sealing the three portions in three jars provided for the purpose, he would hand one jar to the tradesman, the second to the guardian of the peace, and retain the third. Then he would bring an action; and (provided that all the conditions had been accurately fulfilled, without the slightest flaw) the erring tradesman would be told by the Court not to do it again; while the complainant would have to pay all costs, and possibly a fine; and would be sneered at by the magistrate as a fussy idiot and a common informer.

"If, on the other hand, the complainant should omit to secure the company of a custodian of the peace, or fail to stand on one leg with both hands on the counter, or take the knife in his right hand first, or should leave out the prescribed words, or blink his eye, or stammer, or sneeze, or in any other way fail to observe the regulations of the Act; he would, of course, have no case or remedy. The Adulteration Acts would be extremely stringent——"

"Against the victim of adulteration?"

"Ye—es," murmured James, a little nonplussed.



"Ah—well, then, I think we can afford to ignore these Adulteration Acts—like the adulterators and the public authorities would—and proceed with the question of the adulteration. I had a most vivid vision or dream of the details of this adulteration as they would be carried out on your world at the period we are now considering. I imagined that I was actually in a part of your world called 'America,' and that one of your human beings politely invited me to walk through his factory and see how things were made. I think you mentioned 'oysters'——"



"Yes," said James, "that's one name the article of food would possess; newspaper writers, however, would not recognise them by that name—they would only know them as 'the succulent bivalve.'"

"The very idea!" exclaimed William. "That's exactly what I seemed to have become—a newspaper writer. I fancied I went to see the factory, and then sent in the following account:—

"One of the most interesting factories in America is the stately building of the Ephraim Q. Knickerbocker Natural Products Manufacturing Corporation, of Spread Eagle Springs, N.J. That the structure is itself an imposing one may well be imagined in view of the vast productive energy expended within its walls; and the feebleness and inefficiency of the productive operations of Nature are never so fully realized as after a visit to this marvellous factory, and a comparison of the two systems.

"It was, therefore, with no little satisfaction that we lately received a courteous invitation from the able and energetic managing director General Sardanapalus J. Van Biene to inspect the operations of the Corporation at its factory. Accordingly, we proceeded to the New York terminus of the Natural Products Manufacturing Corporation's New York, Sumner Ferry, Thanksgiving Flats, and Spread Eagle Springs Railroad, along which a special train speedily whirled us to the front door of the works. On the steps stood the genial managing director, supported by the principal manager Colonel Exodus V. Rooster, the head chemist Major Madison B. Jefferson, and the assistant chemists Judge Vansittart J. Sumner and Admiral Hudson W. Killigrew.

"They received us with open arms, and, after entertaining us at a recherche lunch, conducted us to the chemistry and analysis section occupying a little over seventeen acres and employing a permanent staff of thirteen thousand four hundred and thirty-two, assistants, among whom are chemists, microscopists, sub-inventors, etc., etc. There it is that the productive operations of Nature are studied and improved upon.

"'You must not imagine that we have any kind of sympathy or admiration for Nature's system,' explained General S. J. Van Biene, hastening to sweep away any false impression which we might have formed.



"'On the contrary, we just entirely despise her and her ways, and should have discarded her way back but for the prejudices of the consuming public. It's just like this—the consumers still believe in natural products, and so we have to go on reproducing them instead of starting right away on our own lines and bringing out new and original commodities far in advance of anything Nature can do. How we're stultified you'll see as we work through. We just have to copy, anyway, in place of originating. We make oysters, for example. Now quite a while ago, our head chemist Major Madison B. Jefferson invented a new edible way, finer in every essential than the oyster; but the consumers wouldn't have it: they shied at it, and declared it wasn't wholesome; and we had the whole stock on our hands, and had to vat it down again, and recolour it, and make tomatoes of it. Then they took it down and just chaired it round. Of course, we have to say we grow the products—that's another effect of popular prejudice; if we had said we made those tomatoes, the public would have started right off again, and talked of "adulteration," although our tomatoes whip Nature's by 50 per cent, in all the elements of nutrition and flavour. Just taste this one.'

"We hesitated, and the director, perceiving it, promptly consumed another from the same case. Thus reassured, we ventured to nibble at the artificial vegetable, and found it excellent in every respect—decidedly superior to the natural product, as he had stated.

"'But,' we asked, 'do you not suffer considerable losses when these products—necessarily perishable in the natural course of things—begin to decay?'



"'That's just another point where we show our superiority to Nature. Our products don't decay; on the contrary, they improve by keeping. Here is a tomato seven years old,' he continued, taking down another case. 'Try it.'

"We did. The other was not to be compared with it. The older tomato had matured and mellowed, the skin having a finer colour and lovelier gloss, the flesh possessing a firmer body and more delicate flavour; it was far in advance of any tomato we had ever conceived.

"'Wonderful!' we exclaimed.

"'A very simple matter,' said the director. 'All that is required is a thorough mastery of chemistry. In all our goods we employ a special patent preservative of our own, which is naturally a secret. We calculate it to be worth one hundred and fifty quadrillions of dollars.

"'But let us show you how we make oysters! See, these are the tanks which contain the mixture—the compound which forms the body of the bivalve. This tank contains the beard-mixture; and this one the gristle.'

"'And what are the principal ingredients?'

"'Glue, made from horses' heels. This is a very important factor in our products. This glue, after undergoing a peculiar treatment which prevents its hardening and losing its elasticity in the course of years, is flavoured and coloured in various ways. This great tank contains the composition for the internal parts of the oyster—nearly black, you perceive; that tank over there contains the compound for the flesh that covers the internal parts; that tank farther along holds the beard mixture; and the one beyond that the gristle which attaches the oyster to the shell. First, the flesh of the oyster is run into moulds, each oyster being in two parts; then the inside of the animal is run into another mould, and the two halves of the body are automatically placed around it and cemented together.

"'Meanwhile the beards have been rolled, stamped, frilled, and coloured along the edge by special automatic machinery. The body of the oyster then passes to the fixing-up room, where the beard is cemented to it by hand, and finishing touches of colour added; and then it passes along and has the gristle attached: and the oyster itself is complete.'



"'But it wants a shell!'

"'Just so. As far as the supply will go, we buy up old shells from dustyards and use them; but most of them are damaged by previous opening, so we make the bulk of our shells, and they're a good deal more natural than the real ones. They're made of lime.'

"'All alike?'

"'Not in the least. You see, we have some thousands of moulds, every one differing slightly from the rest. There's a special department for hingeing the two shells together. We had some trouble to find a substance for the hinge; but at last one of our chemists hit on a way of subjecting old hide-scraps to a peculiar process, and that did the thing. The mother-of-pearl is made of a sort of soft glass, somewhat after the appearance of Venetian glass, and put on the shell hot. Lastly, the oyster is attached to the shells by its cartilage; a little liquor is put in, and the shells are closed up.'

"'But surely people must observe that they are not alive?' we said. 'For instance, they can't open their shells!'

"'That's just where you're astray,' replied the General. 'Owing to the mechanical action of salt upon the composition of the cartilage, the oyster opens when placed in salt water. Iron, however, exercises an electro-magnetic influence upon the composition forming the body of the bivalve, causing a sudden contraction—so that, on a knife being introduced into the shell, the latter closes in the most natural way. We manufacture pearls on the premises, and advertise that one oyster in every gross taken from our beds contains a pearl of more or less value; and there's a greater demand for our oysters than for any others in the world. Our oyster beds are way down along the coast, about ten miles off; and are inspected by thousands yearly. Taste this egg.'



"He took up a fine specimen of a new-laid egg, and proceeded to break it into a glass. It was a delightful egg. 'That's our latest pattern of egg,' explained the General, 'You perceive that it has three lines around it, where the substance of the shell is weaker than elsewhere; the lines near each end enable a person about to consume the egg in a boiled state to easily cut off the top or bottom with a knife, or run his nail around it; while the line about the middle greatly assists cooks in breaking it into a basin. There is also a thin spot at either end, to facilitate sucking. These eggs are always new-laid; we send tons to Europe, particularly to Great Britain, where ours are the only fresh eggs they ever get.'



"'But you must find some difficulty in making an egg?'

"'Just as easy as smiling. The white is simply jelly-fish subjected to a chemical process—jelly-fish aren't costly. This tank is full of the liquor. The main ingredient of the yolk is the horse-heel glue mentioned before; we also boil down vast quantities of rats—they come cheap, too; it's only the cost of catching them; and then there's a vegetable colouring, and the preservative, and a few other trifles. First, the two halves of the white are made in two moulds, and frozen; then the two frozen halves are frozen together, and the yolk-mixture poured in through a small hole, which is then closed. Then comes the skin; and that is the most expensive part, for it contains a certain quantity of rubber. We have tried in vain to find a substitute for rubber, but failed hitherto. The rubber is mixed with a gum from a South American tree, and the mixture is applied with a brush over the frozen egg; and then the egg, still frozen, is dipped in a lime composition very nearly identical with the oyster-shell mixture; and, lastly, the whole thing is passed through the finishing machine, which turns the three thin lines and the two thin spots, imitates the pores of the shell, and delivers the finished egg to the warehouse.'

"'Marvellous!' we involuntarily exclaimed.

"'Oh, that's nothing at all,' said the director. 'We're meditating turning out eggs that will hatch and become fowls. At present we have to manufacture fowls; but we calculate to make a great saving by producing them from the eggs we make. That building over yonder is the terrapin factory; we turn out eleven tons of terrapin weekly. We make clams, of course—in the oyster department. In this next house we make kidneys and sweetbreads. Fruit? Oh, yes, we turn out masses of fruit; peaches pay best, but we do very well with nuts.'

"We were then conducted to the show-room, where we tasted a number of other products of the wonderful factory; and we had just said a grateful farewell to our courteous guide, when we were seized with pains of the most acute description.

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"The arrangements of the hospital were admirable. The kindliness and attention we received made our five years' sojourn there a time to look back upon with feelings of gratitude. We are assured that, with strict diet and unremitting care, we may last some time yet—possibly even three months."

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"It was a marvellous vision," said James, fervently, as the voice of William ceased. "Surely after that you must think better of those beings of mine?"

But William merely sniffed.

J. F. SULLIVAN.

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The above photographs represent two views of an extraordinary turnip grown by Alderman David Evans, Llangennech Park, Carmarthenshire. We are indebted for the photographs to Mr. Morgan W. James, of Llanelly.



The above photograph represents the study of Mr. C. Whitfield King, of Morpeth House, Ipswich, which he has papered with 44,068 unused foreign postage stamps, bearing the value of L699 16s. 9d., and containing 48 varieties of different sizes and colours, presenting an example of mosaic work which is altogether unique of its kind.

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THE END