Over the half-recumbent figure swept his glance, pausing as he surveyed her face, across which flowed a tress of hair loosened in the struggle. Save for the unusual pallor of her cheek, she might have been sleeping, but as he watched her the lashes slowly lifted, and he sullenly nerved himself for the encounter. At the aspect of those bead-like eyes, resolute although ill at ease, like a snake striving to charm an adversary, a tremor of half-recollection shone in her gaze and the color flooded her face. Mechanically, sweeping back the straggling lock of hair, she raised herself without removing her eyes. He who had expected a tempest of tears shifted uneasily, even irritably, from that steady stare, until, finding the silence intolerable, he burst out:

"Well, ma'am, am I a bugbear?"

In her dazed condition she probably did not hear his words; or, if she did, set no meaning to them, Her glance, however, strayed to the narrow window, and then wandered back to the well-worn interior of the coach. Suddenly, as the startling realization of her position came to her, she uttered a loud cry, sprang toward the door, and, with nervous fingers, strove to open it. The man's face became more rubicund as he placed a detaining hand on her shoulder, and roughly thrust her toward the seat.

"Make the best of it!" he exclaimed peremptorily. "You'd better, for I'm not to be trifled with."

Recoiling from his touch, she held herself aloof with such aversion, a sneer crossed his face, and he observed glumly:

"Oh, I'm not a viper! If you're put out, so am I."

"Who are you?" she demanded, breathlessly.

"That's an incriminating question, Ma'am," he replied. "In this case, though, the witness has no objection to answering. I'm your humble servant."

His forced drollery was more obnoxious than his ill-humor, and, awakening her impatience, restored in a measure her courage. He was but a pitiful object, after all, with his flame-colored visage, and short, crouching figure; and, as her thoughts passed from the brutal part he had played on the road to her present situation, she exclaimed with more anger than apprehension:

"Perhaps you will tell me the meaning of this outrage—your smothering me—forcing me into this coach—and driving away—where?"

His face became once more downcast and moody. Driven into a corner by her swift words, his glance met hers fairly; he drummed his fingers together.

"There's no occasion to show your temper, Miss," he said reflectively. "I'm a bit touchy myself to-day; 'sudden and quick in quarrel.' You see I know my Shakespeare, Ma'am. Let us talk about that great poet and the parts you, as an actress, prefer—"

"Can I get an answer from you?" she cried, subduing her dread.

"What is it you asked?"

"As if you did not know!" she returned, her lip trembling with impatience and loathing.

"Yes; I remember." Sharply. "You asked where we were driving? Across the country. What is the meaning of this—outrage, I believe you called it? All actions spring from two sources—Cupid and cupidity. The rest of the riddle you'll have to guess." Gazing insolently into her face, with his hands on his knees.

"But you have told me nothing," she replied, striving to remain mistress of herself and to hide her apprehension.

"Do you call that nothing? You have the approximate cause—causa causans. Was it Cupid? No, for like Bacon, your sex's 'fantastical' charms move me not."

This sally put him in better temper with himself. She was helpless, and he experienced a churlish satisfaction in her condition.

"What was it, then? Cupidity. Do you know what poverty is like in this barren region?" he cried harshly. "The weapons of education only unfit you for the plow. You stint, pinch, live on nothing!" He rubbed his dry hands together. "It was crumbs and scraps under the parsimonious regime; but now the prodigal has come into his own and believes in honest wages and a merry life."

Wonderingly she listened, the scene like a grotesque dream, with the ever-moving coach, the lonely road, the dark woods, and—so near, she could almost place her hand upon him—this man, muttering and mumbling. He had offered her the key of the mystery, but she had failed to use it. His ambiguous, loose talk, only perplexed and alarmed her; the explanation was none at all.

As he watched her out of the corner of his eye, weighing doubt and uncertainty, new ideas assailed him. After all she had spirit, courage! Moreover, she was an actress, and the patroon was madly in love with her.

"If we were only leagued together, how we could strip him!" he thought.

His head dropped contemplatively to his breast, and for a long interval he remained silent, abstracted, while the old springless coach, with many a jolt and jar, covered mile after mile; up the hills, crowned with bush and timber; across the table land; over the plank bridges spanning the brooks and rivulets. More reconciled to his part and her presence, his lips once or twice parted as if he were about to speak, but closed again. He even smiled, showing his amber-hued teeth, nodding his head in a friendly fashion, as to say: "It'll come out all right, Madam; all right for both of us!" Which, indeed, was his thought. She believed him unsettled, bereft of reason, and, although, he was manifestly growing less hostile, his surveillance became almost unbearable. At every moment she felt him regarding her like a lynx, and endeavored therefore to keep perfectly still. What would her strange warder do next? It was not an alarming act, however. He consulted a massive watch, remarking:

"It's lunch time and over! With your permission, I'll take a bite and a drop. Will you join me?"

She turned her head away, and, not disconcerted by her curt refusal, he drew a wicker box from beneath a seat and opened it. His reference to a "bite and a drop" was obviously figurative, especially the "drop," which grew to the dimensions of a pint, which he swallowed quickly. Perhaps the flavor of the wine made him less attentive to his prisoner, for as he lifted the receptacle to his lips, she thrust her arms through the window and a play book dropped from her hand, a possible clue for any one who might follow the coach. For some time she had been awaiting this opportunity and when it came, the carriage was entering a village.

Scroggs finished his cup. "You see, we're provided for," he began. Here the bottle fell from his hand.

"The patroon village!" he exclaimed in consternation. "I'd forgotten we were so close! And they're all gathered in the square, too!"

He cast a quick glance at her. "You're all ready to call for help," he sneered, "but I'm not ready to part company yet."

Hastily drawing up one of the wooden shutters, he placed himself near the other window, observing fiercely; "I don't propose you shall undo what's being done for you. Let me hear from you"—jerking his finger toward the square—"and I'll not answer for what I'll do." But in spite of his admonition he read such determination in her eyes, he felt himself baffled.

"You intend to make trouble!" he cried. And putting his head suddenly through the window, he called to the driver: "Whip the horses through the market place!"

As the affrighted animals sprang forward he blocked the window, placing one hand on her shoulder. He felt her escape from his grasp, but not daring to leave his post, he leaned out of the window when they were opposite the square, and shook his fist at the anti-renters, exclaiming:

"I'll arrest every mother's son of you! I'll evict you—jail you for stealing rent!"

Drowned by the answering uproar, "The patroon's dog!" "Bullets for deputies!" the emissary of the land baron continued to threaten the throng with his fist, until well out of ear-shot, and, thanks to the level road, beyond reach of their resentment. Not that they strove to follow him far, for they thought the jackal had taken leave of his senses. Laughter mingled with their jeers at the absurd figure he presented, fulminating and flying at the same time. But there was no defiance left in him when they were beyond the village, and he fell back into his seat, his face now ash-colored.

"If they'd stopped us my life wouldn't have been worth the asking," he muttered hoarsely. "But I did it!" Triumphantly gazing at the young girl who, trembling with excitement, leaned against the side of the coach. "I see you managed to get down the shutter. I hope you heard your own voice. I didn't; and, what's more, I'm sure they didn't!"

With fingers he could hardly control he opened a second bottle, dispensed with the formality of a glass, and set the neck to his lips, repeating the operation until it was empty, when he tossed it out of the window to be shattered against a rock, after which he sank again into a semblance of meditation.

Disappointed over her ineffectual efforts, overcome by the strain, the young girl for the time relaxed all further attempt. Unseen, unheard, she had stood at her window! She had tried to open the door, but it resisted her frantic efforts, and then the din had died away and left her weak, powerless, hardly conscious of the hateful voice of her companion from time to time addressing her.

But fortunately he preferred the gross practice of draining the cup to the fine art of conversation. Left to the poor company of her thoughts, she dwelt upon the miscarriage of her design, and the slender chance of assistance. They would probably pass through no more villages and if they did, he would undoubtedly find means to prevent her making herself known. Unless—and a glimmer of hope flickered through her thoughts!—her warder carried his potations to a point where vigilance ceased to be a virtue. Inconsiderately he stopped at the crucial juncture, with all the signs of contentment and none of drowsiness.

So minutes resolved themselves into hours and the day wore on. Watching the sun-rays bathe the top of the forest below them, she noted how fast the silver disk was descending. The day which had seemed interminable now appeared but too short, and she would gladly have recalled those fleeting hours. Ignorant of the direction in which they had been traveling, she realized that the driver had been unsparing and the distance covered not inconsiderable. The mystery of the assault, the obscurity of the purpose and the vagueness of their destination were unknown quantities which, added to the declining of the day and the brewing terrors of the night, were well calculated to terrify and crush her.

Despairingly, she observed how the sun dipped, and ever dipped toward the west, when suddenly a sound afar rekindled her fainting spirits. Listening more attentively, she was assured imagination had not deceived her; it was the faint patter of a horse's hoofs. Nearer it drew; quicker beat her pulses. Moreover, it was the rat-a-tat of galloping. Some one was pursuing the coach on horseback. Impatient to glance behind, she only refrained for prudential reasons.

Immersed in his own grape-vine castle her jailer was unmindful of the approaching rider, and she turned her face from him that he might not read her exultation. Closer resounded the beating hoofs, but her impatience outstripped the pursuer, and she was almost impelled to rush to the window.

Who was the horseman? Was it Barnes? Saint-Prosper? The latter's name had quickly suggested itself to her.

Although the rider, whoever he might be, continued to gain ground, to her companion, the approaching clatter was inseparable from the noise of the vehicle, and it was not until the horseman was nearly abreast, and the cadence of the galloping resolved itself into clangor, that the dreamer awoke with an imprecation. As he sprang to his feet, thus rudely disturbed, a figure on horseback dashed by and a stern voice called to the driver:

"Stop the coach!"

Probably the command was given over the persuasive point of a weapon, for the animals were drawn up with a quick jerk and came to a standstill in the middle of the road. Menacing and abusive, as the vehicle stopped, the warder's hand sought one of his pockets, when the young girl impetuously caught his arm, clinging to it tenaciously.

"Quick!—Mr. Saint-Prosper!" she cried, recognizing, as she thought, the voice of the soldier.

"You wild-cat!" her jailer exclaimed, struggling to throw her off.

Not succeeding, he raised his free arm in a flurry of invective.

"Curse you, will you let go!"

"Quick! Quick!" she called out, holding him more tightly.

A flood of Billingsgate flowed from his lips. "Let go, or—"

But before he could in his blind passion strike her or otherwise vent his rage, a revolver was clapped to his face through the window, and, with a look of surprise and terror, his valor oozing from him, he crouched back on the cushions. At the same time the carriage door was thrown open, and Edward Mauville, the patroon, stood in the entrance!

Only an instant his eyes swept her, observing the flushed cheeks and disordered attire, leading her wonder at his unexpected appearance, and—to his satisfaction!—her relief as well; only an instant, during which the warder stared at him open-mouthed—and then his glance rested on the now thoroughly sober limb of the law.

"Get out!" he said, briefly and harshly.

"But," began the other with a sickly grin, intended to be ingratiating, "I don't understand—this unexpected manner—this forcible departure from—"

Coolly raising his weapon, the patroon deliberately covered the hapless jailer, who unceremoniously scrambled out of the door. The land baron laughed, replaced his revolver and, turning to the young girl, removed his hat.

"It was fortunate, Miss Carew, I happened along," he said gravely. "With your permission, I will get in. You can tell me what has happened as we drive along. The manor house, my temporary home, is not far from here. If I can be of any service, command me!"

The jackal saw the patroon spring into the carriage, having fastened his horse behind, and drive off. Until the vehicle had disappeared, he stood motionless in the road, but when it had passed from sight, he seated himself on a stone.

"That comes from mixing the breed!" he muttered. "Dramatic effect, a la France!" He wiped the perspiration from his brow. "Well, I'm three miles from my humble habitation, but I'd rather walk than ride—under some circumstances!"



CHAPTER XIII

THE COMING OF LITTLE THUNDER

The afternoon was waning; against the golden western sky the old manor house loomed in solemn majesty, the fields and forests emphasizing its isolation in the darkening hour of sunset, as a coach, with jaded horses, passed through the avenue of trees and approached the broad portico. A great string of trailing vine had been torn from the walls by the wind and now waved mournfully to and fro with no hand to adjust it. In the rear was a huge-timbered barn, the door of which was unfastened, swinging on its rusty hinges with a creaking and moaning sound.

As gaily as in the days when the periwigged coachman had driven the elaborate equipage of the early patroons through the wrought-iron gate this modern descendant entered the historic portals, not to be met, however, by servitors in knee breeches at the front door, but by the solitary care-taker who appeared on the portico in considerable disorder and evident state of excitement, accompanied by the shaggy dog, Oloffe.

"The deputies shot two of the tenants to-day," hurriedly exclaimed the guardian of the place, without noticing Mauville's companion. "The farmers fired upon them; they replied, and one of the tenants is dead."

"A good lesson for them, since they were the aggressors," cried the heir, as he sprang from the coach. "But you have startled the lady."

An exclamation from the vehicle in an unmistakably feminine voice caused the "wacht-meester" now to observe the occupant for the first time and the servant threw up his hands in consternation. Here was a master who drank all night, shot his tenants by proxy, visited strollers, and now brought one of them to the steyn. That the strange lady was a player, Oly-koeks immediately made up his mind, and he viewed her with mingled aversion and fear, as the early settlers regarded sorcerers and witches. She was very beautiful, he observed in that quick glance, but therefore the more dangerous; she appeared distressed, but he attributed her apparent grief to artfulness. He at once saw a new source of trouble in her presence; as though the threads were not already sufficiently entangled, without the introduction of a woman—and she a public performer!—into the complicated mesh!

"Fasten the iron shutters of the house," briefly commanded Mauville, breaking in upon the servant's painful reverie. "Then help this man change the horses and put in the grays."

Oly-koeks, with a final deprecatory glance at the coach, expressive of his estimate of his master's light conduct and his apprehension of the outcome, disappeared to obey this order.

"May I assist you, Miss Carew?" said the land baron deferentially, offering his arm to the young girl, whose pale but observant face disclosed new demur and inquiry.

"But you said we would go right on?" she returned, drawing back with implied dissent.

"When the horses are changed! If you will step out, the carriage will be driven to the barn."

Reluctantly she obeyed, and as she did so, the patroon and the coachman exchanged pithy glances.

"Look sharp!" commanded the master, sternly. "Oh, he won't run away," added Mauville quickly, in answer to her look of surprise. "He knows I could find him, and"—fingering his revolver—"will not disoblige me. Later we'll hear the rogue's story."

The man's averted countenance smothered a clandestine smile, as he touched the horses with his whip and turned them toward the barn, leaving the patroon and his companion alone on the broad portico. Sweeping from a distant grove of slender poplars and snowy birch a breeze bore down upon them, suddenly bleak and frosty, and she shivered in the nipping air.

"You are chilled!" he cried. "If you would but go into the house while we are waiting! Indeed, if you do not, I shall wonder how I have offended you! It will be something to remember"—half lightly, half seriously—"that you have crossed my threshold!"

He stood at the door, with such an undissembled smile, his accents so regretful, that after a moment's hesitation, Constance entered, followed by the patroon. Sweeping aside the heavy draperies from the window, he permitted the golden shafts of the ebbing day to enter the hall, gleaming on the polished floors, the wainscoting and the furniture, faintly illuminating the faded pictures and weirdly revealing the turnings of the massive stairway. No wonder a half-shudder of apprehension seized the young actress in spite of her self-reliance and courage, as she entered the solemn and mournful place, where past grandeur offered nothing save morbid memories and where the frailty of existence was significantly written! After that Indian summer day the sun was sinking, angry and fiery, as though presaging a speedy reform in the vagaries of the season and an immediate return to the legitimate surroundings of October.

Involuntarily the girl moved to the window, where the light rested on her brown tresses, and as Mauville watched that radiance, shifting and changing, her hair alight with mystic color, the passion that had prompted him to this end was stirred anew, dissipating any intrusive doubts. The veering and flickering sheen seemed but a web of entangling irradiation. A span of silence became an interminable period to her, with no sight of fresh horses nor sign of preparation for the home journey.

"What takes him so long?" she said, finally, with impatience. "It is getting so late!"

"It is late," he answered. "Almost too late to go on! You are weary and worn. Why not rest here to-night?"

"Rest here?" she repeated, with a start of surprise.

"You are not fit to drive farther. To-morrow we can return."

"To-morrow!" she cried. "But—what do you mean?"

"That I must insist upon your sparing yourself!" he said, firmly, although a red spot flushed his cheek.

"No; no! We must leave at once!" she answered.

He smiled reassuringly. "Why will you not have confidence in me?" he asked. "You have not the strength to travel all night—over a rough road—after such a trying day. For your own sake, I beg you to give up the idea. Here you are perfectly safe and may rest undisturbed."

"Please call the horses at once!"

An impatient expression furrowed his brow. He had relied on easily prevailing upon her through her gratitude; continuing in his disinterested role for yet some time; resuming the journey on the morrow, carrying her farther away under pretext of mistaking the road, until—Here his plans had faded into a vague perspective, dominated by unreasoning self-confidence and egotism.

But her words threatened a rupture at the outset that would seriously alter the status of the adventure.

"It is a mistake to go on to-night," he said, with a dissenting gesture. "However, if you are determined—" And Mauville stepped to the window. "Why, the carriage is not there!" he exclaimed, looking out.

"Not there!" she repeated, incredulously. "You told them to change the horses. Why—"

"I don't understand," returned the land baron, with an effort to make his voice surprised and concerned. "He may—Hello-a, there! You!—Oly-koeks!" he called out, interrupting his own explanation.

Not Oly-koeks, but the driver's face, appeared from behind the barn door, and, gazing through the window, the young girl, with a start, suddenly realized that she had seen him not for the first time that day—but where?—when? Through the growing perplexity of her thoughts she heard the voice of her companion

"Why don't you hitch up the grays?"

"There are no horses in the barn," came the answer.

"Strange, the care-taker did not tell me they had been taken away!" commented the other, hastily, stepping from the window as the driver vanished once more into the barn. "I am sorry, but there seems no alternative but to wait—at least, until I can send for others."

She continued to gaze toward the door through which the man had disappeared. She could place him now, although his livery had been discarded for shabby clothes; she recalled him distinctly in spite of this changed appearance.

"Why not make the best of it?" said Mauville, softly, but with glance sparkling in spite of himself. "After all, are you not giving yourself needless apprehensions? You are at home here. Anything you wish shall be yours. Consider yourself mistress; me, one of your servants!"

Almost imperceptibly his manner had changed. Instinctive misgivings which had assailed her in the coach with him now resolved themselves into assured fears. Something she could not explain had aroused her suspicions before they reached the manor, but his words had glossed these inward qualms, and a feeling of obligation suggested trust, not shrinking; but, with his last words, a full light illumined her faculties; an association of ideas revealed his intent and performance.

"It was you, then," she said, slowly, studying him with steady, penetrating glance.

"You!" she repeated, with such contempt that he was momentarily disconcerted. "The man in the carriage—he was hired by you. The driver—his face is familiar. I remember now where I saw him—in the Shadengo Valley. He is your coachman. Your rescue was planned to deceive me. It deceived even your man. He had not expected that. Your reassuring me was false; the plan to change horses a trick to get me here—"

"If you would but listen—"

"When"—her eyes ablaze—"will this farce end?"

Her words took him unawares. Not that he dreaded the betrayal of his actual purpose. On the contrary, his reckless temper, chafing under her unexpected obduracy, now welcomed the opportunity of discarding the disinterested and chivalrous part he had assumed.

"When it ends in a honeymoon, ma belle Constance!" he said, swiftly.

His sudden words, removing all doubts as to his purpose, awoke such repugnance in her that for a moment aversion was paramount to every other feeling. Again she looked without, but only the solitude of the fields and forests met her glance.

The remoteness of the situation gave the very boldness of his plan feasibility. Was he not his own magistrate in his own province? Why, then, he had thought, waste the golden moments? He had but one heed now; a study of physical beauty, against a crimson background.

"To think of such loveliness lost in the wilderness!" he said, softly. "The gates of art should all open to you. Why should you play to rustic bumpkins, when the world of fashion would gladly receive you? I am a poor prophet if you would not be a success in town. It is not always easy to get a hearing, to procure an audience, but means could be found. Soon your name would be on every one's lips. Your art is fresh. The jaded world likes freshness. The cynical town runs to artless art as an antidote to its own poison. Most of the players are wrinkled and worn. A young face will seem like a new-grown white rose."

She did not answer; unresponsive as a statue, she did not move. The sun shot beneath an obstructing branch, and long, searching shafts found access to the room. Mauville moved forward impetuously, until he stood on the verge of the sunlight on the satinwood floor.

"May I not devote myself to this cause, Constance?" he continued. "You are naturally resentful toward me now. But can I not show you that I have your welfare at heart? If you were as ambitious as you are attractive, what might you not do? Art is long; our days are short; youth flies like a summer day."

His glance sought hers questioningly; still no reply; only a wave of blood surged over her neck and brow, while her eyes fell. Then the glow receded, leaving her white as a snow image.

"Come," he urged. "May I not find for you those opportunities?"

He put out his eager hand as if to touch her. Then suddenly the figure in the window came to life and shrank back, with widely opened eyes fixed upon his face. His gaze could not withstand hers, man of the world though he was, and his free manner was replaced by something resembling momentary embarrassment. Conscious of this new and annoying feeling, his egotism rose in arms, as if protesting against the novel sensation, and his next words were correspondingly violent.

"Put off your stage manners!" he exclaimed. "You are here at my pleasure. It was no whim, my carrying you off. After you left I went to the manor, where I tried to forget you. But nights of revelry—why should I not confess it?—could not efface your memory." His voice unconsciously sank to unreserved candor. "Your presence filled these halls. I could no longer say: Why should I trouble myself about one who has no thought for me?"

Breathing hard, he paused, gazing beyond her, as though renewing the memories of that period.

"Learning you were in the neighboring town," he continued, "I went there, with no further purpose than to see you. On the journey perhaps I indulged in foolish fancies. How would you receive me? Would you be pleased; annoyed? So I tempted my fancy with air-castles like the most unsophisticated lover. But you had no word of welcome; scarcely listened to me, and hurried away! I could not win you as I desired; the next best way was this."

He concluded with an impassioned gesture, his gaze eagerly seeking the first sign of lenity or favor on her part, but his confession seemed futile. Her eyes, suggestive of tender possibilities, expressed now but coldness and obduracy. In a revulsion of feeling he forgot the distance separating the buskined from the fashionable world; the tragic scatterlings from the conventions of Vanity Fair! He forgot all save that she was to him now the one unparagoned entirety, overriding other memories.

"Will not a life of devotion atone for this day, Constance?" he cried. "Do you know how far-reaching are these lands? All the afternoon you drove through them, and they extend as wide in the other direction. These—my name—are yours!"

A shade of color swept over her brow.

"Answer me," he urged.

"Drive back and I will answer you."

"Drive back and you will laugh at me," he retorted, moodily. "You would make a woman's bargain with me."

"Is yours a man's with me?" Contemptuously.

"What more can I do?"

"Undo what you have done. Take me back!"

"I would cut a nice figure doing that! No; you shall stay here."

He spoke angrily; her disdain at his proposal not only injured his pride but awoke his animosity. On the other hand, his words demonstrated she had not improved her own position. If he meant to keep her there he could do so, and opposition made him only more obstinate, more determined to press his advantage. Had she been more politic—Juliana off the stage as well as on—she, whose artifice was glossed by artlessness—

Her lashes drooped; her attitude became less aggressive; her eyes, from beneath their dark curtains, rested on him for a moment. What it was in that glance so effective is not susceptible to analysis. Was it the appeal that awakened the quixotic sense of honor; the helplessness arousing compassion; the irresistible quality of a brimming eye so fatal to masculine calculation and positiveness? Whatever it was, it dispelled the contraction on the land baron's face, and—despite his threats, vows!—he was swayed by a look.

"Forgive me," he said, tenderly.

"You will drive back?"

"Yes; I will win you in your own way, fairly and honestly! I will take you back, though the whole country laughs at me. Win or lose, back we go, for—I love you!" And impetuously he threw his arm around her waist.

Simulation could not stand the test; it was no longer acting, but reality; she had set herself to a role she could not perform. Hating him for that free touch, she forcibly extricated herself with an exclamation and an expression of countenance there was no mistaking. From Mauville's face the glad light died; he regarded her once more cruelly, vindictively.

"You dropped the mask too soon," he said, coldly. "I was not prepared for rehearsal, although you were perfect. You are even a better actress than I thought you, than which"—mockingly—"I can pay you no better compliment."

She looked at him with such scorn he laughed, though his eyes flashed.

"Bravo!" he exclaimed.

While thus confronting each other a footfall sounded without, the door burst open, and the driver of the coach, with features drawn by fear, unceremoniously entered the room. The patroon turned on him enraged, but the latter without noticing his master's displeasure, exclaimed hurriedly:

"The anti-renters are coming!"

The actress uttered a slight cry and stepped toward the window, when she was drawn back by an irresistible force.

"Pardon me," said a hard voice, from which all passing compunction had vanished. "Be kind enough to come with me."

"I will follow you, but—" Her face expressed the rest.

"This way then!"

He released her and together they mounted the stairway. For a long time a gentle footfall had not passed those various landings; not since the ladies in hoops, with powdered hair, had ascended or descended, with attendant cavaliers, bewigged, beruffled, bedizened. The land baron conducted his companion to a distant room up stairs, the door of which he threw open.

"Go in there," he said curtly.

She hesitated on the threshold. So remote was it from the main part of the great manor, the apartment had all the requirements of a prison.

"You needn't fear," he continued, reading her thoughts. "I'm not going to be separated from you—yet! But we can see what is going on here."

Again she mutely obeyed him, and entered the room. It was a commodious apartment, where an excellent view was offered of the surrounding country on three sides. But looking from the window to discern his assailants, Mauville could see nothing save the fields and openings, fringed by the dark groves. The out-houses and barns were but dimly outlined, while scattered trees here and there dotted the open spaces with small, dark patches. A single streak of red yet lingered in the west. A tiny spot, moving through the obscurity, proved to be a cow, peacefully wandering over the dewy grass. The whirring sound of a diving night-hawk gave evidence that a thing of life was inspecting the scene from a higher point of vantage.

From that narrow, dark crimson ribbon, left behind by the flaunting sun, a faint reflection entered the great open windows of the chamber and revealed Mauville gazing without, pistol in hand; Constance leaning against the curtains and the driver of the coach standing in the center of the room, quaking inwardly and shaking outwardly. This last-named had found an old blunderbuss somewhere, useful once undoubtedly, but of questionable service now.

Meanwhile Oly-koeks had not returned. Having faithfully closed and locked all the iron shutters, he had crept out of a cellar window and voluntarily resigned as care-taker of the manor, with its burden of dangers and vexations. With characteristic prudence, he had timed the period of his departure with the beginning of the end in the fortunes of the old patroon principality. The storm-cloud, gathering during the life of Mauville's predecessor, was now ready to burst, the impending catastrophe hastened by the heir's want of discretion and his failure to adjust difficulties amicably. That small shadow, followed by a smaller shadow, passing through the field, were none other than Oly-koeks and Oloffe, who grew more and more imperceptible until they were finally swallowed up and seemingly lost forever in the darkness of the fringe of the forest.

A branch of a tree grated against the window as Mauville looked out over the peaceful vale to the ribbon of red that was being slowly withdrawn as by some mysterious hand. Gradually this adornment, growing shorter and shorter, was wound up while the shadows of the out-houses became deeper and the meadow lands appeared to recede in the distance. As he scanned the surrounding garden, the land baron's eye fell upon an indistinct figure stealing slowly across the sward in the partial darkness. This object was immediately followed by another and yet another. To the observer's surprise they wore the headgear of Indians.

Suddenly the patroon heard the note of the whippoorwill, the nocturnal songster that mourns unseen. It was succeeded by the sharp tones of a saw-whet and the distinct mew of a cat-bird. A wild pigeon began to coo softly in another direction and was answered by a thrush. The listener vaguely realized that all this unexpected melody came from the Indians, who had by this time surrounded the house and who took this method of communicating with one another.

An interval of portentous silence was followed by a loud knocking at the front door, which din reverberated through the hall, echoing and re-echoing the vigorous summons. Mauville at this leaned from the window and as he did so, there arose a hooting from the sward as though bedlam had broken loose. Maintaining his post, the heir called out:

"What do you want, men?"

At these words the demonstration became more turbulent, and, amid the threatening hubbub, voices arose, showing too well the purpose of the gathering. Aroused to a fever of excitement by the shooting of the tenants, they were no longer skulking, stealthy Indians, but a riotous assemblage of anti-renters, expressing their determination in an ominous chorus:

"Hang the land baron!"

In the midst of this far from reassuring uproar a voice arose like a trumpet:

"We are the messengers of the Lord, made strong by His wrath!"

"You are the messenger of the devil, Little Thunder," Mauville shouted derisively.

A crack of a rifle admonished the land baron that the jest might have cost him dear.



CHAPTER XIV

THE ATTACK ON THE MANOR

After this brief hostile outbreak in the garden below the right wing, Mauville prepared to make as effective defense as lay in his power and looked around for his aid, the driver of the coach. But that quaking individual had taken advantage of the excitement to disappear. Upon hearing the threats, followed by the singing of bullets, and doubting not the same treatment accorded the master would be meted out to the servant, the coachman's fealty so oozed from him that he dropped his blunderbuss, groping his way through the long halls to the cellar, where he concealed himself in an out-of-the-way corner beneath a heap of potato sacks. In that vast subterranean place he congratulated himself he would escape with a whole skin, his only regret being certain unpaid wages which he considered as good as lost, together with the master who owed them.

Mauville, however, would have little regretted the disappearance of this poor-spirited aid, on the theory a craven follower is worse than none at all, had not this discovery been followed quickly by the realization that the young girl, too, had availed herself of the opportunity while he was at the window and vanished.

"Why, the slippery jade's gone!" he exclaimed, staring around the room, confounded for the moment. Then recovering himself, he hurriedly left the chamber, more apprehensive lest she should get out of the manor than that the tenants should get in.

"She can't be far off," he thought, pausing doubtfully in the hall.

For the moment he almost forgot the anti-renters and determined to find her at all hazard. He hastily traversed the upper hall, but was rewarded with no sight of her. He gazed down the stairs eagerly, with no better result; the front door was still closed, as he had left it. Evidently she had fled toward the rear of the house and made good her escape from one of the back or side entrances.

"Yes; she's gone," he repeated. "What a fool I was to have trusted her to herself for a moment!"

A new misgiving arose, and he started. What if she had succeeded in leaving the manor? He knew and distrusted Little Thunder and his cohorts. What respect would they have for her? For all he had done, it was, nevertheless, intolerable to think she might be in possible danger—from others save himself! A wave of compunction swept over him. After all, he loved her, and, loving her, could not bear to think of any calamity befalling her. He hated her for tricking him; feared for her, for the pass to which he had brought her; cared for her beyond the point his liking had reached for any other woman. A mirthless laugh escaped him as he stood at the stairway looking down the empty hall.

"Surely I've gone daft over the stroller!" he thought, as his own position recurred to him in all its seriousness. "Well, what's done is done! Let them come!" His eyes gleamed.

With no definite purpose of searching further, he nevertheless walked mechanically down the corridor toward the other side of the manor and suddenly, to his surprise and satisfaction, discerned Constance in a blind passage, where she had inadvertently fled.

At the end of this narrow hall a window looked almost directly out upon the circular, brick dove-cote, now an indistinct outline, and on both sides were doors, one of which she was vainly endeavoring to open when he approached. Immediately she desisted in her efforts; flushed and panting, she stood in the dim light of the passage. Quiet, unbroken save for the cooing in the cote, had succeeded the first noisy demonstration; the anti-renters were evidently arranging their forces to prevent the land baron's escape or planning an assault on the manor.

In his momentary satisfaction at finding her, Mauville overlooked the near prospect of a more lengthy, if not final, separation, and surveyed the young girl with a sudden, swift joyousness, but the fear and distrust written on her features dissipated his concern for her; his best impulses were smothered by harsher feelings.

"Unfortunately, the door is locked," he said, ironically. "Meanwhile, as this spot has no strategic advantages, suppose we change our base of defense?"

Realizing how futile would be resistance, she accompanied him once more to the chamber in the wing, where he had determined to make his last defense. After closing and locking the door, he lighted one of many candles on the mantel. The uncertain glow from the great candelabra, covered with dust, like the white marble itself, and evidently placed there many years before, revealed faded decorations and a ceiling, water-stained as from a defective roof. Between the windows, with flowery gilt details, an ancient mirror extended from floor to ceiling. A musty smell pervaded the apartment, for Mynheer, the Patroon, had lived so closely to himself that he had shut out both air and sunlight from his rooms.

The flickering glare fell upon the young actress standing, hand upon her heart, listening with bated breath, and Mauville, with ominous expression, brooding over that chance which sent the lease-holders to the manor on that night of nights. It was intolerable that no sooner had she crossed his threshold than they should appear, ripe for any mischief, not only seeking his life, but wresting happiness from his very lips. For, of the outcome he could have little doubt, although determined to sell dearly that which they sought.

The violent crash of a heavy body at the front of the house and a tumult of voices on the porch, succeeded by a din in the hall, announced that the first barrier had been overcome and the anti-renters were in possession of the lower floor of the manor. Mauville had started toward the door, when the anticipation in the young girl's eyes held him to the spot. Inaccessible, she was the more desired; her reserve was fuel to his flame, and, at that moment, while his life hung in the balance, he forgot the rebuff he had received and how she had nearly played upon him.

Words fell from his lips, unpremeditated, eloquent, voicing those desires which had grown in the solitude of the manor. Passionately he addressed her, knowing the climax to his difficulties was at hand. Once near her, he could not be at peace without her, he vowed, and this outcome had been inevitable. All this he uttered impetuously, at times incoherently, but as he concluded, she only clasped her hands helplessly, solely conscious of the uproar below which spread from the main hall to the adjoining rooms.

"They are coming—they are coming!" she said, and Mauville stopped short.

But while anger and resentment were at strife within him, some one tried the door of the chamber and finding it locked, set up a shout. Immediately the prowlers in the wings, the searchers in the kitchen and all the stragglers below congregated in the main hall; footsteps were heard ascending rapidly, pausing in doubt at the head of the stairway, not knowing whether to turn to the right or to the left.

"Here they are!" called out the man at the door.

"You meddlesome fool!" exclaimed Mauville, lifting a revolver and discharging it in the direction of the voice. Evidently the bullet, passing through the panel of the door, found its mark, for the report was followed by a cry of pain.

This plaint was answered from the distance and soon a number of anti-renters hastened to the spot. Mauville, in vicious humor, moved toward the threshold. One of the panels was already broken and an arm thrust into the opening. The land baron bent forward and coolly clapped his weapon to the member, the loud discharge being succeeded by a howl from the wounded lease-holder. Mauville again raised his weapon when an exclamation from the actress caused him to turn quickly, in time to see a figure spring unexpectedly into the room from the balcony. The land baron stood in amazement, eying the intruder who had appeared so suddenly from an unguarded quarter, but before he could recover his self-possession, his hand was struck heavily and the revolver fell with a clatter to the floor.

His assailant quickly grasped the weapon, presenting it to the breast of the surprised land-owner, who looked, not into the face of an unknown anti-renter, but into the stern, familiar countenance of Saint-Prosper.



CHAPTER XV

A HASTY EXIT

The afternoon following the soldier's departure from the patroon village went by all too slowly, his jaded horse's feet as heavy as the leaden moments. That he had not long since overtaken the coach was inexplicable, unless Susan had been a most tardy messenger. True, at the fork of the road he had been misled, but should before this have regained what he had lost, unless he was once more on the wrong thoroughfare. As night fell, the vastness of the new world impressed the soldier as never before; not a creature had he met since leaving the patroon village; she whom he sought might have been swallowed up in the immensity of the wilderness. For the first time his task seemed as if it might be to no purpose; his confidence of the morning had gradually been replaced by consuming anxiety. He reproached himself that he had not pressed his inquiries further at the patroon village, but realized it was now too late for regrets; go on he must and should.

Along the darkening road horse and rider continued their way. Only at times the young man pulled at the reins sharply, as the animal stumbled from sheer weariness. With one hand he stroked encouragingly the foam-flecked arch of the horse's neck; the other, holding the reins, was clenched like a steel glove. Leaving the brow of a hill, the horseman expectantly fixed his gaze ahead, when suddenly on his right, a side thoroughfare lay before him. As he drew rein indecisively at the turn, peering before him through the gathering darkness, a voice from the trees called out unexpectedly:

"Hitch up in here!"

At this peremptory summons the soldier gazed quickly in the direction of the speaker. Through the grove, where the trees were so slender and sparsely planted the eye could penetrate the thicket, he saw a band of horsemen dismounting and tying their animals. There was something unreal, grotesque even, in their appearance, but it was not until one of their number stepped from the shadow of the trees into the clearer light of the road that he discerned their head-dress and garb to be that of Indians. Recalling all he had heard of the masquerading, marauding excursions of the anti-renters, the soldier at once concluded he had encountered a party of them, bent upon some nefarious expedition. That he was taken for one of their number seemed equally evident.

"Come!" called out the voice again, impatiently. "The patroon is at the manor with his city trollop. It's time we were moving."

An exclamation fell from the soldier's lips. The patroon!—his ill-disguised admiration for the actress!—his abrupt reappearance the night of the temperance drama! Any uncertainty Saint-Prosper might have felt regarding the identity of him he sought, or the reason for that day's work, now became compelling certitude. But for the tenants, he might have ridden by the old patroon house. As it was, congratulating himself upon this accidental meeting rather than his own shrewdness, he quickly dismounted. A moment's thought, and he followed the lease-holders.

In the attack on the manor, his purpose, apart from theirs, led him to anticipate the general movement of the anti-renters in front of the house and to make his way alone, aided by fortuitous circumstances, to the room where the land baron had taken refuge. As he sprang into this chamber the young girl's exclamation of fear was but the prelude to an expression of gladness, while Mauville's consternation when he found himself disarmed and powerless, was as great as his surprise. For a moment, therefore, in his bearing bravado was tempered with hesitancy.

"You here?" stammered the land baron, as he involuntarily recoiled from his own weapon.

The soldier contemptuously thrust the revolver into his pocket. "As you see," he said coldly, "and in a moment, they"—indicating the door—"will be here!"

"You think to turn me over to them!" exclaimed the other violently. "But you do not know me! This is no quarrel of yours. Give me my weapon, and let me fight it out with them!"

The soldier's glance rested for a moment on the young girl and his face grew stern and menacing.

"By heaven, I am half-minded to take you at your word! But you shall have one chance—a slender one! There is the window; it opens on the portico!"

"And if I refuse?"

"They have brought a rope with them. Go, or hang!"

The heir hesitated, but as he pondered, the anti-renters were effectually shattering the heavy door, regaling themselves with threats taught them by the politicians who had advocated their cause on the stump, preached it in the legislature, or grown eloquent over it in the constitutional assembly.

"The serfs are here! The drawers of water and hewers of wood have arisen! Hang the land baron! Hang the feudal lord!"

A braver man than Mauville might have been cowed by that chorus. But after pausing irresolutely, weighing the chances of life and death, gazing jealously upon the face of the apprehensive girl, and venomously at the intruder, the heir finally made a virtue of necessity and strode to the window. With conflicting emotions struggling in his mind—fury toward the lease-holders, hatred for the impassive mediator—he yet regained, in a measure, an outwardly calm bearing.



"It's a poor alternative," he said, shortly, flashing a last glance at the actress. "But it's the best that offers!"

So saying, he sprang upon the balcony—none too soon, for a moment later the door burst open and an incongruous element rushed into the room. Many were attired in outlandish head-dresses, embroidered moccasins and fringed jackets, their faces painted in various hues, but others, of a bolder spirit, had disdained all subterfuge of disguise. Not until then did the soldier discover that he had overlooked the possible unpleasantness of remaining in the land baron's stead, for the anti-renters promptly threw themselves upon him, regardless of his companion. The first to grapple with him was a herculean, thick-ribbed man, of extraordinary stature, taller than the soldier, if not so well-knit; a Goliath, indeed, as Scroggs had deemed him, with arms long as windmills.

"Stand back, lads," he roared, "and let me throw him!" And Dick, the tollman, rushed at Saint-Prosper with furious attack; soon they were chest to chest, each with his chin on his opponent's right shoulder, and each grasping the other around the body with joined hands.

Dick's muscles grew taut, like mighty whip-cords; his chest expanded with power; he girded his loins for a great effort, and it seemed as if he would make good his boast. Held in the grasp of those arms, tight as iron bands, the soldier staggered. Once more the other heaved and again Saint-Prosper nearly fell, his superior agility alone saving him.

Then slowly, almost imperceptibly, the soldier managed to face to the right, twisting so as to place his left hip against his adversary—his only chance; a trick of wrestling unknown to his herculean, but clumsy opponent. Gathering all his strength in a last determined effort, he stooped forward suddenly and lifted in his turn. One portentous moment—a moment of doubt and suspense—and the proud representative of the barn-burners was hurled over the shoulder of the soldier, landing with a crash on the floor where he lay, dazed and immovable.

Breathing hard, his chest rising and falling with labored effort, Saint-Prosper fell back against the wall. The anti-renters quickly recovering from their surprise, gave him no time to regain his strength, and the contest promised a speedy and disastrous conclusion for the soldier, when suddenly a white figure flashed before him, confronting the tenants with pale face and shining eyes. A slender obstacle; only a girlish form, yet the fearlessness of her manner, the eloquence of her glance—for her lips were silent!—kept them back for the instant.

But fiercer passions were at work among them, the desire for retaliation and bitter hatred of the patroon, which speedily dissipated any feeling of compunction or any tendency to waver,

"Kill him before his lady love!" cried a piercing voice from behind. "Did they not murder my husband before me? Kill him, if you are men!"

And pressing irresistibly to the front appeared the woman whose husband had been shot by the deputies. Her features, once soft and matronly, flamed with uncontrollable passions.

"Are only the poor to suffer?" she continued, as her, burning eyes fell on the young girl. "Shall she not feel what I did?"

"Back woman!" exclaimed one of the barn-burners, sternly. "This is no place for you."

"Who has a better right to be here?" retorted the woman.

"But this is not woman's work!"

"Woman's work!" Fiercely. "As much woman's work as for his trull to try to save him! Oh? let me see him!"

Gently the soldier, now partly recovering his strength, thrust the young girl behind him, as pushing to the foreground the woman regarded him vengefully. But in her eyes the hatred and bitter aversion faded slowly, to be replaced by perplexity, which in turn gave way to wonder, while the uplifted arm, raised threateningly against him, fell passively to her side. At first, astonished, doubting, she did not speak, then her lips moved mechanically.

"That is not the land baron," she cried, staring at him in disappointment that knew no language.

"The woman is right," added a masquerader. "I know Mauville, too, for he told me to go to the devil when I asked him to wait for his rent."

At this unexpected announcement, imprecations and murmurs of incredulity were heard on all sides.

"Woman, would you shield your husband's murderer?" exclaimed an over-zealous barn-burner.

"Shield him!" she retorted, as if aroused from a trance. "No, no! I'm not here for that! But this is not the patroon. His every feature is burned into my heart! I tell you it is not he. Yet he should be here. Did I not see him driving toward the manor?" And she gazed wildly around.

For a moment, following this impassioned outburst, their rough glances sought one another's, and the soldier quickly took advantage of this cessation of hostilities.

"No; I am not the land baron," he interposed.

"You aren't?" growled a disappointed lease-holder. "Then who the devil are you? An anti-renter?" he added, suspiciously.

"He must be an enemy of the land baron," interrupted the woman, passing her hand across her brow. "He was with us in the grove. I saw him ride up and took him to be a barn-burner. He crossed the meadow with us. I saw his face; distinctly as I see it now! He asked me about the patroon—yes, I remember now!—and what was she like, the woman who was with him!"

"I am no friend of his," continued the soldier in a firm voice. "You had one purpose in seeking him; I, another! He carried off this lady. I was following him, when I met you in the grove."

"Then how came you here—in this room?"

"By the way of a tree, the branch of which reaches to the window."

"The land baron was in this room a moment ago. Where is he now?"

For answer Saint-Prosper pointed to the window.

"Then you let him—"

"We're wasting time," impatiently shouted the barn-burner who had disclaimed the soldier's identity to the patroon. "Come!" With an oath. "Do you want to lose him after all? He can't be far away. And this one, damn him! isn't our man!"

For a second the crowd wavered, then with a vengeful shout they shot from the room, disappearing as quickly as they had come. Led by Little Thunder, who, being a man of peace, had discreetly remained without, they had reached the gate in their headlong pursuit when they were met by a body of horsemen, about to turn into the yard as the anti-renters were hurrying out. At sight of this formidable band, the lease-holders immediately scattered. Taken equally by surprise, the others made little effort to intercept them and soon they had vanished over field and down dell. Then the horsemen turned, rode through the avenue of trees, and drew up noisily before the portico.

From their window the soldier and his companion observed the abrupt encounter at the entrance of the manor grounds and the dispersion of the lease-holders like leaves before the autumn gusts. Constance, who had breathlessly watched the flight of the erstwhile assailants, felt her doubts reawakened as the horsemen drew up before the door.

"Are they coming back?" she asked, involuntarily clasping the arm of her companion.

She who had been so courageous and self-controlled throughout that long, trying day, on a sudden felt strangely weak and dependent. He leaned from the narrow casement to command the view below, striving to pierce the gloom, and she, following his example, gazed over his shoulder. Either a gust of air had extinguished the light in the candelabra on the mantel, or the tallow dip had burnt itself out, for the room was now in total darkness so that they could dimly see, without being seen.

"These men are not the ones who just fled," he replied.

"Then who are they?" she half-whispered, drawing unconsciously closer in that moment of jeopardy, her face distant but a curl's length.

Below the men were dismounting, tying their horses among the trees. Like a noisy band of troopers they were talking excitedly, but their words were indistinguishable.

"Why do you suppose they fled from them?" she continued.

Was it a tendril of the vine that touched his cheek gently? He started, his face toward the haze in the open borderland.

"Clearly these men are not the lease-holders. They may be seeking you."

She turned eagerly from the window. In the darkness their hands met. Momentary compunction made her pause.

"I haven't yet thanked you!" And he felt the cold, nervous pressure of her hands on his. "You must have ridden very hard and very far!"

His hand closed suddenly upon one of hers. He was not thinking of the ride, but of how she had placed herself beside him in his moment of peril; how she had held them—not long—but a moment—yet long enough!

"They're coming in! They're down stairs!" she exclaimed excitedly.

A flickering light below suddenly threw dim moving shadows upon the ceiling of the hall. As she spoke she stepped forward and stumbled over the debris at the door. His arm was about her, almost before the startled exclamation had fallen from her lips; for a moment her shapely, young figure rested against him. But quickly she extricated herself, and they picked their way cautiously over the bestrewn threshold out into the hall.

At the balustrade, they paused. Reconnoitering at the turn, they were afforded full survey of the lower hall where the latest comers had taken possession. Few in numbers, the gathering had come to a dead stop, regarding in surprise the broken door, and the furniture wantonly demolished. But amid this scene of rack and ruin, an object of especial wonder to the newcomers was the great lifting-stone lying in the hall amid the havoc it had wrought.

"No one but Dick, the tollman, could have thrown that against the door!" said a little man who seemed a person of authority. "I wonder where the patroon can be?"

With unusual pallor of face the young girl stepped from behind the sheltering post. Her hand, resting doubtfully upon the balustrade, sought in unconscious appeal her companion's arm, as they descended together the broad steps. In the partial darkness the little man ill discerned the figures, but divined their bearing in the relation of outlines limned against the obscure background.

"Why," he muttered in surprise, "this is not the patroon! And here, if I am not mistaken, is the lady Mr. Barnes is so anxious about."

"Mr. Barnes—he is with you?"

It was Constance that spoke.

"Yes; but—"

"Where is he?"

"We left him a ways down the road and—"

The sound of a horse's hoof beats in front of the manor, breaking in on this explanation, was followed by hurried footsteps upon the porch. The newcomer paused on the threshold, when, with an exclamation of joy, Constance rushed to him, and in a moment was clasped in the arms of the now jubilant Barnes.



CHAPTER XVI

THE COUNCIL AT THE TOWN PUMP

Next morning the sun had made but little progress in the heavens and the dew was not yet off the grass when the party, an imposing cavalcade, issued from the manor on the return journey. Their home-coming was uneventful. The barn-burners had disappeared like rabbits in their holes; the manor whose master had fled, deserted even by the faithful Oly-koeks, was seen for the last time from the brow of the hill, and then, with its gables and extensive wings, vanished from sight.

"Well," remarked Barnes as they sped down the road, "it was a happy coincidence for me that led the anti-renters to the patroon's house last night."

And he proceeded to explain how when he had sought the magistrate, he found that official organizing a posse comitatus for the purpose of quelling an anticipated uprising of lease-holders. In answer to the manager's complaint the custodian of the law had asserted his first duty was generally to preserve the peace; afterward, he would attend to Barnes' particular grievance. Obliged to content himself as best he might with this meager assurance, the manager, at his wit's end, had accompanied the party whose way had led them in the direction the carriage had taken, and whose final destination—an unhoped-for consummation!—had proved the ultimate goal of his own desires.

On reaching, that afternoon, the town where they were playing, Susan was the first of the company to greet Constance.

"Now that it's all over," she laughed, "I rather envy you that you were rescued by such a handsome cavalier."

"Really," drawled Kate, "I should have preferred not being rescued. The owner of a coach, a coat of arms, silver harness, and the best horses in the country! I could drive on forever."

But later, alone with Susan, she looked hard at her:

"So you fainted yesterday?"

"Oh, I'm a perfect coward," returned the other, frankly.

Kate's mind rapidly swept the rough and troubled past; the haphazard sea upon which they had embarked so long ago—

"Dear me!" she remarked quietly, and Susan turned to conceal a blush.

Owing to the magistrate's zeal in relating the story of the rescue, the players' success that night was great.

"The hall was filled to overflowing," says the manager in his date book. "At the end of the second act, the little girl was called out, and much to her inward discomfiture the magistrate presented her with a bouquet and the audience with a written speech. Taking advantage of the occasion, he pointed a political moral from the tale, and referred to his own candidacy to the legislature, where he would look after the interests of the rank and file. It was time the land-owners were taught their places—not by violence—Oh, no—no French methods for Americans!—by ballot, not by bullet! Let the people vote for an amendment to the constitution!

"As we were preparing to leave the theater, the magistrate appeared behind the scenes. 'Of course, Mr. Barnes, you will appear against the patroon?' he said. 'His prosecution will do much to fortify the issue.'

"'That is all very fine,' I returned, satirically. 'But will the Lord provide while we are trying the case? Shall we find miraculous sustenance? We live by moving on, sir. One or two nights in a place; sometimes, a little longer! No, no; 'tis necessary to forget, if not to forgive. You'll have to fortify your issue without us.'

"'Well, well,' he said, good-naturedly, 'if it's against your interests, I have no wish to press the matter.' Whereupon we shook hands heartily and parted. I looked around for Constance, but she had left the hall with Saint-Prosper. Have I been wise in asking him to join the chariot? I sometimes half regret we are beholden to him—"

From the Shadengo Valley Barnes' company proceeded by easy stages to Ohio, where the roads were more difficult than any the chariot had yet encountered. On every hand, as they crossed the country, sounded the refrains of that memorable song-campaign which gave to the state the fixed sobriquet of "Buckeye." Drawing near the capital, where the convention was to be held, a log cabin, on an enormous wagon, passed the chariot. A dozen horses fancifully adorned were harnessed to this novel vehicle; flowers over-ran the cabin-home, hewn from the buckeye logs of the forest near Marysville. In every window appeared the faces of merry lads and lasses, and, as they journeyed on, their chorus echoed over field and through forest. The wood-cutter leaned on his ax to listen; the plowman waved his coonskin cap, his wife, a red handkerchief from the doorway of their log cabin.

"Oh, tell me where the Buckeye cabin was made? 'Twas built among the boys who wield the plow and spade, Where the log-cabin stands in the bonnie Buckeye shade."

From lip to lip the song had been carried, until the entire country was singing it, and the log-cabin had become a part of the armorial bearings of good citizenship, especially applicable to the crests of presidents. Well might the people ask:

"Oh, what has caused this great commotion All the country through?"

which the ready chorus answered:

"It is a ball a-rolling on For Tippecanoe and Tyler, too!"

The least of the strollers' troubles at this crucial period of their wanderings were the bad roads or the effects of song and log-cabin upon the "amusement world," the greatest being a temperance orator who thundered forth denunciations of rum and the theater with the bitterness of a Juvenal inveighing profligate Rome. The people crowded the orator's hall, upon the walls of which hung the customary banners: a serpent springing from the top of a barrel; the steamboat, Alcohol, bursting her boiler and going to pieces, and the staunch craft, Temperance, safe and sound, sailing away before a fair wind. With perfect self-command, gift of mimicry and dramatic gestures, the lecturer swayed his audience; now bubbling over with witty anecdotes, again exercising his power of graphic portraiture. His elixir vitae—animal spirits—humanized his effort, and, as Sir Robert Peel played upon the House of Commons "as on an old fiddle," so John B. Gough (for it was the versatile comic singer, actor and speaker) sounded the chords of that homely gathering.

Whatever he was, "poet, orator and dramatist, an English Gavazzi," or, "mountebank," "humbug," or "backslider," Mr. Gough was, even at that early period, an antagonist not to be despised. He had been out of pocket and out at the elbows—indeed, his wardrobe now was mean and scanty; want and privation had been his companions, and, from his grievous experiences, he had become a sensational story-teller of low life and penury. Certainly Barnes had reason to lament the coincidence which brought players and lecturer into town at the same time, especially as the latter was heralded under the auspices of the Band of Hope.

The temperance lectures and a heavy rain combined to the undoing of the strollers. Majestically the dark clouds rolled up, outspread like a pall, and the land lay beneath the ban of a persistent downpour. People remained indoors, for the most part, and the only signs of life Barnes saw from the windows of the hotel were the landlord's Holderness breed of cattle, mournfully chewing their monotonous cuds, and some Leicester sheep, wofully wandering in the pasture, or huddled together like balls of stained cotton beneath the indifferent protection of a tree amid field.

Exceptional inducements could not tempt the villagers to the theater. Even an epilogue gained for them none of Mr. Gough's adherents. "The Temperance Doctor" failed miserably; "Drunkard's Warning" admonished pitiably few; while as for "Drunkard's Doom," no one cared what it might be and left him to it.

After such a disastrous engagement the manager not only found himself at the end of his resources, but hopelessly indebted, and, with much reluctance, laid the matter before the soldier who had already advanced Barnes a certain sum after their conversation on the night of the country dance and had also come to his assistance on an occasion when box-office receipts and expenses had failed to meet. Moreover, he had been a free, even careless, giver, not looking after his business concerns with the prudent anxiety of a merchant whose ventures are ships at the rude mercy of a troubled sea. To this third application, however, he did not answer immediately.

"Is it as bad as that?" he said at length, thoughtfully.

"Yes; it's hard to speak about it to you," replied the manager, with some embarrassment, "but at New Orleans—"

The soldier encountered his troubled gaze. "See if you can sell my horse," he answered.

"You mean—" began the other surprised.

"Yes."

"Hanged if I will!" exclaimed the manager. Then he put out his hand impulsively. "I beg your pardon. If I had known—but if we're ever out of this mess, I may give a better account of my stewardship."

Nevertheless, his plight now was comparable to that of the strollers of old, hunted by beadles from towns and villages, and classed as gypsies, vagabonds and professed itinerants by the constables. He was no better served than the mummers, clowns, jugglers, and petty chapmen who, wandering abroad, were deemed rogues and sturdy beggars. Yet no king's censor could have found aught "unchaste, seditious or unmete" in Barnes' plays; no cause for frays or quarrels, arising from pieces given in the old inn-yards; no immoral matter, "whatsoever any light and fantastical head listeth to invent or devise;" no riotous actors of rollicking interludes, to be named in common with fencers, bearwards and vagrants.

"Better give it up, Mr. Barnes," said a remarkably sweet and sympathetic voice, as the manager was standing in the hotel office, turning the situation over and over in his mind.

Barnes, looking around quickly to see who had read his inmost thoughts, met the firm glance of his antagonist.

"Mr. Gough, it is an honor to meet one of your talents," replied the manager, "but"—with an attempt to hide his concern—"I shall not be sorry, if we do not meet again."

"An inhospitable wish!" answered the speaker, fixing his luminous eyes upon the manager. "However, we shall probably see each other frequently."

"The Fates forbid, sir!" said Barnes, earnestly. "If you'll tell me your route, we'll—go the other way!"

"It won't do, Mr. Barnes! The devil and the flesh must be fairly fought. 'Where thou goest'—You know the scriptural saying?"

"You'll follow us!" exclaimed the manager with sudden consternation.

The other nodded.

"Why, this is tyranny! You are a Frankenstein; an Old-Man-of-the Sea!"

"Give it up," said the orator, with a smile that singularly illumined his thin, but powerful features. "As I gave it up! Into what dregs of vice, what a sink of iniquity was I plunged! The very cleansing of my soul was an Augean task. Knavery, profligacy, laxity of morals, looseness of principles—that was what the stage did for me; that was the labor of Hercules to be cleared away! Give it up, Mr. Barnes!" And with a last penetrating look, he strode out of the office.

In spite of Barnes' refusal, the soldier offered to sell his horse to the landlord, but the latter curtly declined, having horses enough to "eat their heads off" during the winter, as he expressed it. His Jeremy Collier aversion to players was probably at the bottom of this point-blank rebuff, however. He was a stubborn man, czar in his own domains, a small principality bounded by four inhospitable walls. His guests—having no other place to go—were his subjects, or prisoners, and distress could not find a more unfitting tribunal before which to lay its case. There was something so malevolent in his vigilance, so unfriendly in his scrutiny, that to the players he seemed an emissary of disaster, inseparable from their cruel plight.

Thus it was that the strollers perforce reached a desperate conclusion when making their way from the theater on the last evening. By remaining longer, they would become the more hopelessly involved; in going—without their host's permission—they would be taking the shortest route toward an honorable settlement in the near future; a paradoxical flight from the brunt of their troubles, to meet them squarely! This, to Barnes, ample reason for unceremonious departure was heartily approved by the company in council assembled around the town pump.

"Stay and become a county burden, indeed!" exclaimed Mrs. Adams, tragically.

"As well be buried alive as anchored here!" fretfully added Susan.

"The council is dissolved," said the manager, promptly, "with no one the wiser—except the town pump."

"An ally of Mr. Gough!" suggested Adonis.

Thus more merrily than could have been expected, with such a distasteful enterprise before them, they resumed their way. It was disagreeable under foot and they presented an odd appearance, each one with a light. Mrs. Adams, old campaigner that she was, led the way for the ladies, elastic and chatty as though promenading down Broadway on a spring morning. With their lanterns and the purpose they had in view, they likened themselves to a band of conspirators. As Barnes marched ahead with his light, Susan playfully called him Guy Fawkes, of gun-powder fame, whereupon his mind almost misgave him concerning the grave adventure upon which they were embarked.

The wind was blowing furiously, doors and windows creaked, and all the demons of unrest were moaning that night in the hubbub of sounds. Save for a flickering candle in the hall, the tavern was dark, and landlord and maids had long since retired to rest. Amid the noise of the rain and the sobbing of the wind, trunks were lowered from the window; the chariot and property wagon were drawn from the stable yard and the horses led from their stalls. In a trice they were ready and the ladies, wrapped in their cloaks, were in the coach. But the clatter of hoofs, the neighing of a horse, or some other untoward circumstance, aroused the landlord; a window in the second story shot up and out popped a head in a night-cap.

"Here!—What are you about?" cried the man.

"Leaving!" said the manager, laconically.

The landlord threw up his arms like Shylock at the loss of his money-bags.

"The reckoning!" he exclaimed. "What about the reckoning?"

"Your pound of flesh, sir!" replied Barnes.

"My score! My score!" shouted the other. "You would not leave without settling it!"

"Go to bed, sir," was the answer, "and let honest people depart without hindrance. You will be paid out of our first profits."

But the man was not so easily appeased. "Robbers! Constable!" he screamed.

Conceiving it was better to be gone without further parley, having assured him of their honorable intentions, Barnes was about to lash the horses, when Kate suddenly exclaimed:

"Where's Constance?"

"Isn't she inside?" asked the manager quickly.

"No; she isn't here."

"Oh, I sent her back to get something for me I had forgotten," spoke up Mrs. Adams, "and she hasn't returned yet."

"Sent her back! Madam, you have ruined everything!" burst out Barnes, bitterly.

"Mr. Barnes, I won't be spoken to like a child!"

"Child, indeed—"

But the querulous words were not uttered, for, as the manager was about to leave the box in considerable perturbation, there—gazing down upon them at a window next to that occupied by the landlord—stood Constance!

For a tippet, or a ruff, or some equally wretched frippery, carelessly left by the old lady, all their plans for deliverance appeared likely to miscarry. Presumably, Constance, turned from her original purpose by the noisy altercation, had hurried to the window, where now the landlord perceived her and immediately availed himself of the advantage offered.

"So one of you is left behind," he shouted exultantly. "And it's the leading lady, too! I'll take care she stays here, until after a settlement. I'll stop you yet! Stealing away in the middle of the night, you—you vagabonds!"

His voice, growing louder and louder, ended in a shrieking crescendo. Disheartened, there seemed no alternative for the players save to turn back and surrender unconditionally. Barnes breathed a deep sigh; so much for a tippet!—their dash for freedom had been but a sorry attempt!—now he saw visions of prison bars, and uttered a groan, when the soldier who was riding his own horse dashed forward beneath the window and stood upright in his stirrups.

"Do not be afraid, Miss Carew," he said.

Fortunately the window was low and the distance inconsiderable, but Barnes held his breath, hoping the hazard would deter her.

"Do not, my dear!" he began.

But she did not hesitate; the sight of the stalwart figure and the strong arms, apparently reassured her, and she stepped upon the sill.

"Quick!" he exclaimed, and, at the word, she dropped into his upstretched arms. Scarcely had she escaped, however, before the landlord was seen at the same window. So astonished was he to find her gone, surprise at first held him speechless; then he burst into a volley of oaths that would have shamed a whaler's master.

"Come back!" he cried. "Come back, or—" The alternative was lost in vengeful imprecation.

Holding Constance before him, the soldier resumed his saddle. "Drive on!" he cried to Barnes, as past the chariot sped his horse, with its double burden.



CHAPTER XVII

THE HAND FERRY

At a lively gait down the road toward the river galloped the horse bearing Saint-Prosper and Constance. The thoroughfare was deserted and the dwelling houses as well as the principal buildings of the town were absolutely dark. At one place a dog ran out to the front gate, disturbed by the unusual noise on the road, and barked furiously, but they moved rapidly on. Now the steeple of the old church loomed weirdly against the dark background of the sky and then vanished.

On; on, they went, past the churchyard, with its marble slabs indistinctly outlined in the darkness, like a phantom graveyard, as immaterial and ghostlike itself as the spirits of the earliest settlers at rest there beneath the sod. This was the last indication of the presence of the town, the final impression to carry away into the wide country, where the road ran through field and forest. As they sped along, they plunged into a chasm of blackness, caused by the trees on both sides of the road which appeared to be constantly closing upon them. In the darkness of that stygian tunnel, dashing blindly through threatening obscurity, she yet felt no terrors, for a band of steel seemed to hold her above some pit of "visible night."

Out of the tunnel into the comparatively open space, the wind boomed with all its force, and like an enraged monster, drove the storm-clouds, now rainless, across the sky. Occasionally the moon appeared through some aperture, serene, peace-inspiring, momentarily gilding the dark vapor, and again was swallowed up by another mass of clouds. A brood of shadows leaped around them, like things of life, now dancing in the road or pursuing through the tufts of grass, then vanishing over the meadows or disappearing in murky nooks. But a moment were they gone and then, marshaled in new numbers, menacing before and behind, under the very feet of the horse, bidding defiance to the clattering hoofs. With mane tossed in the angry wind, and nostrils dilated, the animal neighed with affright, suddenly leaping aside, as a little nest of unknown dangers lurked and rustled in the ambush of a drift of animated brush.

At that abrupt start, the rider swayed; his grasp tightened about the actress' waist; her arms involuntarily held him closer. Loosened by the wind and the mad motion, her hair brushed his cheek and fell over his shoulder, whipped sharply in the breeze. A fiercer gust, sweeping upon them uproariously, sent all the tresses free, and scudded by with an exultant shriek. For a time they rode in this wise, her face cold in the rush of wind; his gaze fixed ahead, striving to pierce the gloom, and then he drew rein, holding the horse with some difficulty at a standstill in the center of the thoroughfare.

With senses numbed by the stirring flight, the young girl had been oblivious to the firmness of the soldier's sustaining grasp, but now as they paused in the silent, deserted spot, she became suddenly conscious of it. The pain—so fast he held her!—made her wince. She turned her face to his. A glint of light fell on his brow and any lines that had appeared there were erased in the magical glimmer; eagerness, youth, passion alone shone upon his features.

His arm clasped her even yet more closely, as if in the wildness of the moment he would fiercely draw her to him regardless of all. Did she understand—that with her face so near his, her hair surrounding him, her figure pressed in that close embrace—he must needs speak to her; had, indeed, spoken to her. She was conscious her hand on his shoulder trembled. Her cheek was no longer cold; abruptly the warm glow mantled it. Was it but that a momentary calm fell around them; the temporary hush of the boisterous wind? And yet, when again the squall swept by with renewed turmoil, her face remained unchilled. She seemed but a child in his arms. How light her own hand-touch compared to that compelling grasp with which he held her! She remembered he had but spoken to her standing in the window, and she had obeyed without a question—without thought of fear. She longed to spring to the ground now, to draw herself from him.

"You can hear the chariot down the road, Miss Carew."

Quickly her glance returned to his face; his gaze was bent down the thoroughfare. He spoke so quietly she wondered at her momentary fears; his voice reassured her.

A gleam of light shot through a rift in the clouds.

"Hello-a!" came a welcome voice from the distance.

"Hello-a!" answered the soldier.

"You'd better ride on!" shouted the manager. "They're after us!"

For answer the soldier touched his horse, and now began a race for the river and the ferry, which were in plain sight, Luna fortunately at this critical moment sailing from between the vapors and shining from a clear lake in the sky. The chaste light, out of the angry convulsions of the heavens, showed the fugitives the road and the river, winding like a broad band of silver across the darkness of the earth, its surface rippled into waves by the northern wind. Behind them the soldier and Constance could hear the coach creaking and groaning. It seemed to careen on its beams' end, but some special providence was watching over the players and no catastrophe occurred.

Nearer came the men on horseback down the hill; now the foremost shouted. Closer was the river; Saint-Prosper reached its bank; the gang-plank was in position and he dashed aboard. With a mighty tossing and rolling, the chariot approached, rattled safely across the gangway, followed by the property wagon, and eager hands grasped the rope, extending from shore to shore above the large, flat craft. These hand ferries, found in various sections of the country, were strongly, although crudely, constructed, their sole means of locomotion in the stationary rope, by means of which the passengers, providing their own power for transportation, drew themselves to the opposite shore.

The energy now applied to the hempen strand sent the ferry many feet from the shore out into the river, where the current was much swifter than usual, owing to the heavy rainfalls. The horses on the great cumbersome craft were snorting with terror.

Crack! pish! One of the men on the shore used his revolver.

"An illogical and foolish way to collect debts, that!" grumbled the manager, tugging at the rope. "If they kill us, how can we requite them for our obligations?"

The river was unusually high and the current set the boat, heavily loaded, tugging at the rope. However, it resisted the strain and soon the craft grated on the sand and the party disembarked, safe from constable and bailiff in the brave, blue grass country. Only one mishap occurred, and that to Adonis, who, in his haste, fell into the shallow water. He was as disconsolate as the young hero Minerva threw into the sea to wrest him from the love of Eucharis. But in this case, Eucharis (Kate) laughed immoderately at his discomfiture.

As Barnes was not sure of the road, the strollers camped upon the bank. The river murmured a seductive cradle-song to the rushes, and, on the shore, from the dark and ominous background, came the deeper voice of the pines.

Constance, who had been unusually quiet and thoughtful, gradually recovered her spirits.

"Here, Mrs. Adams, is your tippet," she said with a merry smile, taking a bit of lace from her dress.

"Thank you, my dear; I wouldn't have lost it for anything!" said the old lady, effusively, while Barnes muttered something beneath his breath.

The soldier, who had dismissed the manager's thanks somewhat abruptly, occupied himself arranging the cushions from the chariot on the grass. Suddenly Mrs. Adams noticed a crimson stain on his shoulder.

"Sir!" she exclaimed, in the voice of the heroine of "Oriana," "you are wounded!"

"It is nothing, Madam!" he replied.

Stripping off his coat, Barnes found the wound was, indeed, but slight, the flesh having just been pierced.

"How romantic!" gushed Susan. "He stood in front of Constance when the firing began. Now, no one thought of poor me. On the contrary, if I am not mistaken, Mr. Hawkes discreetly stood behind me."

"Jokes reflecting upon one's honor are in bad taste," gravely retorted the melancholy actor.

"Indeed, I thought it no jest at the time!" replied the other.

"Mistress Susan, your tongue is dangerous!"

"Mr. Hawkes, your courage will never lead you into danger!"

"Nay," he began, angrily, "this is a serious offense—"

"On the contrary," she said, laughing, "it is a question of defense."

"There is no arguing with a woman," he grumbled. "She always takes refuge in her tongue."

"While you, Mr. Hawkes, take refuge—"

But the other arose indignantly and strode into the gloom. Meanwhile Barnes, while dressing the injury, discovered near the cut an old scar thoroughly healed, but so large and jagged it attracted his attention.

"That hurt was another matter," said he, touching it.

Was it the manager's fingers or his words caused Saint-Prosper to wince? "Yes, it was another matter," he replied, hurriedly. "An Arab spear—or something of the kind!"

"Tell us about it," prattled Susan. "You have never told us anything about Africa. It seems a forbidden subject."

"Perhaps he has a wife in Tangiers, or Cairo," laughed Kate.

"He was wed in Amsterdam, Again in far Siam, And after this Sought triple bliss And married in Hindustan,"

sang Susan.

The soldier made some evasive response to this raillery and then became silent. Soon quiet prevailed in the encampment; only out of the recesses of the forest came the menacing howl of a vagabond wolf.

"Such," says Barnes in his notebook, "is the true history of an adventure which created some talk at the time. A perilous, regrettable business at best, but we acted according to our light and were enabled thereafter to requite our obligations, which could not have been done had they seized the properties, poor garments of players' pomp; tools whereby we earned our meager livelihood. If, after this explanation, anyone still has aught of criticism, I must needs be silent, not controverting his censure.

"With some amusement I learned that our notable belligerent, Mr. Gough, was well-nigh reduced to the same predicament as that in which we found ourselves. He could not complain of his audiences, and the Band of Hope gained many recruits by his coming, but, through some misapprehension, the customary collections were overlooked. The last night of the lecture, the chairman of the evening, at the conclusion of the address, arose and said: 'I move we thank Mr. Gough for his eloquent effort and then adjourn.'

"The motion prevailed, and the gathering was about to disperse when the platform bludgeon-man held them with a gesture. 'Will you kindly put your thanks in writing, that I may offer it for my hotel bill,' said he.

"But for this quick wit and the gathering's response to the appeal he would have been in the same boat with us, or rather, on the same boat—the old hand ferry! Subsequently, he became a speaker of foreign and national repute, but at that time he might have traveled from Scarboro' to Land's End without attracting a passing glance."



BOOK II

DESTINY AND THE MARIONETTES



CHAPTER I

THE FASTIDIOUS MARQUIS

Through the land of the strapping, thick-ribbed pioneers of Kentucky the strollers bent their course—a country where towns and hamlets were rapidly springing up in the smiling valleys or on the fertile hillsides; where new families dropping in, and old ones obeying the injunction to be "fruitful and multiply" had so swelled the population that the region, but a short time before sparsely settled, now teemed with a sturdy people. To Barnes' satisfaction, many of the roads were all that could have been wished for, the turnpike system of the center of the state reflecting unbounded credit upon its builders.

If a people may be judged by its highways, Kentucky, thus early, with its macadamized roads deserved a prominent place in the sisterhood of states. Moreover, while mindful always of her own internal advancement, she persistently maintained an ever-watchful eye and closest scrutiny on the parental government and the acts of congress. "Give a Kentuckian a plug of tobacco and a political antagonist and he will spend a comfortable day where'er he may be," has been happily said. It was this hardy, horse-raising, tobacco-growing community which had given the peerless Clay to the administrative councils of the country; it was this rugged cattle-breeding, whisky-distilling people which had offered the fearless Zach Taylor to spread the country's renown on the martial field.

What sunny memories were woven in that pilgrimage for the strollers! Remembrance of the corn-husking festivities, and the lads who, having found the red ears, kissed the lasses of their choice; of the dancing that followed—double-shuffle, Kentucky heel-tap, pigeon wing or Arkansas hoe-down! And mingling with the remembrance of such pleasing diversions were the yet more satisfying recollections of large audiences, generous-minded people and substantial rewards, well-won; rewards which enabled them shortly afterward to pay by post the landlord from whom they had fled.

Down the Father of Waters a month or so after their flight into the blue grass country steamed the packet bearing the company of players, leaving behind them the Chariot of the Muses.

At the time of their voyage down the Mississippi "the science of piloting was not a thing of the dead and pathetic past," and wonderful accounts were written of the autocrats of the wheel and the characteristics of the ever-changing, ever-capricious river. "Accidents!" says an early steamboat captain. "Oh, sometimes we run foul of a snag or sawyer, occasionally collapse a boiler and blow up sky-high. We get used to these little matters and don't mind them."

None of these trifling incidents was experienced by the players, however, who thereby lost, according to the Munchausens of the period, half of the pleasure and excitement of the trip. In fact, nothing more stirring than taking on wood from a flatboat alongside, or throwing a plank ashore for a passenger, varied the monotony of the hour, and, approaching their destination, the last day on the "floating palace" dawned serenely, uneventfully.

The gray of early morn became suffused with red, like the flush of life on a pallid cheek. Arrows of light shot out above the trees; an expectant hush pervaded the forest. Inside the cabin a sleepy negro began the formidable task of sweeping. This duty completed, he shook a bell, which feature of his daily occupation the darky entered into with diabolical energy, and soon the ear-rending discord brought the passengers on deck. But hot cornbread, steaks and steaming coffee speedily restored that equanimity of temper disturbed by the morning's clangorous summons.

Breakfast over, some of the gentlemen repaired to the boiler deck for the enjoyment of cigars, the ladies surrounded the piano in the cabin, while a gambler busied himself in getting into the good graces of a young fellow who was seeing the world. Less lonely became the shores, as the boat, panting as if from long exertion, steamed on. Carrolton and Lafayette were left behind. Now along the banks stretched the showy houses and slave plantations of the sugar planters; and soon, from the deck of the boat, the dome of the St. Charles and the cathedral towers loomed against the sky.

Beyond a mile or so of muddy water and a formidable fleet of old hulks, disreputable barges and "small fry broad-horns," lay Algiers, graceless itself as the uninviting foreground; looking out contemplatively from its squalor at the inspiring view of Nouvelle Orleans, with the freighters, granaries and steamboats, three stories high, floating past; comparing its own inertia—if a city can be presumed capable of such edifying consciousness!—with the aspect of the busy levee, where cotton bales, sugar hogsheads, molasses casks, tobacco, hemp and other staple articles of the South, formed, as it were, a bulwark, or fortification of peace, for the habitations behind it. Such was the external appearance—suggestive of commerce—of that little center whose social and bohemian life was yet more interesting than its mercantile features.

At that period the city boasted of its Addison of letters—since forgotten; its Feu-de-joie, the peerless dancer, whose beauty had fired the Duke Gambade to that extravagant conduct which made the recipient of those marked attentions the talk of the town; its Roscius of the drama; its irresistible ingenue, the lovely, little Fantoccini; and its theatrical carpet-knight, M. Grimacier, whose intrigue with the stately and, heretofore, saintly Madame Etalage had, it was said later, much to do with the unhappy taking-off of that ostentatious and haughty lady. It had Mlle. Affettuoso, songstress, with, it is true, an occasional break in her trill; and, last, but not least, that general friend of mankind, more puissant, powerful and necessary than all the nightingales, butterflies, or men of letters—who, nevertheless, are well enough in their places!—Tortier, the only Tortier, who carried the art de cuisine to ravishing perfection, whose ragouts were sonnets in sauce and whose fricassees nothing less than idyls!

Following the strollers' experiences with short engagements and improvised theaters, there was solace in the appearance of the city of cream and honey, and the players, assembled on the boiler deck, regarded the thriving port with mingled feelings as they drew nearer. Susan began forthwith to dream of conquests—a swarthy Mexican, the owner of an opal mine; a prince from Brazil; a hidalgo, exile, or any other notable among the cosmopolitan people. Adonis bethought himself of dusky beauties, waiting in their carriages at the stage entrance; sighing for him, languishing for him; whirling him away to a supper room—and Paradise! Regretfully the wiry old lady reverted to the time when she and her first husband had visited this Paris of the South, and, with a deep sigh, paid brief tribute to the memory of conjugal felicity.

Constance's eyes were grave as they rested upon the city where she would either triumph or fail, and the seriousness of her task came over her, leaning with clasped hands against the railing of the boat. Among that busy host what place would be made for her? How easy it seemed to be lost in the legion of workers; to be crushed in the swaying crowd! It was as though she were entering a room filled with strangers, and stood hesitating on the threshold. But youth's assurance soon set aside this gloomy picture; the shadow of a smile lighted her face and her glance grew bright. At twenty the world is rosy and in the perspective are many castles.

Near by the soldier also leaned against the rail, looking not, however, at New Orleans but at her, while all unconscious of his regard she continued to gaze cityward. His face, too, was thoughtful. The haphazard journey was approaching its end, and with it, in all likelihood, the bond of union, the alliance of close comradeship associated with the wilderness. She was keenly alive to honor, fame, renown. What meaning had those words to him—save for her? He smiled bitterly, as a sudden revulsion of dark thoughts crowded upon him. He had had his bout; the sands of the arena that once had shone golden now were dust.